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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


TERESA  BRAYTON 


SONGS  OF  THE  DAWN 


AND 


IRISH   DITTIES 


BY 
TERESA   BRAYTON 


NEW  YORK 

P.  J.   KENEDY   &  SON 
1913 


Copyright,   1913, 

BY 
TERESA    BRAYTON 


3  SO  3 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

INSCRIPTION   i 

ANCIENT  RACE,  THE 79 

As  THE  BANDS  Go  BY 67 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  HlLL 42 

BOY  FROM  COUNTY  DOWN,  THE 19 

BONFIRE  NIGHT  IN  IRELAND 88 

CHRISTMAS  GIFT,  A 10 

CARRICKDHU 59 

CUCKOO'S  CALL,  THE 83 

CHRISTMAS  SONG,  A 53 

CROPPIES'  GRAVE,  THE 1 1 

CONNAUGHTMAN'S  RAMBLES,  THE 56 

CAPPAGH  HILL ; 65 

FISHING  37 

FIDDLER  PHIL   69 

HUNTING  THE  WREN 36 

IRISH  RANK  AND  FILE 30 

INDEPENDENCE  DAY 51 

IN  THE  SPRING  o'  THE  YEAR 74 

JERRY  CONNOR'S  FORGE 28 

JOGGIN'  INTO  NAAS 34 

KERRY 14 

KILDARE 45 

LIMERICK 64 

MISSIN'  THE  CHILDHER 20 

MAYO 7 

NOGGIN  OF  BUTTERMILK,  A 66 

iii 


626123 


iv  Contents. 


PAGE 


OLD  LAND,  THE 40 

OLD  BOREEN,  THE 47 

OLD  COUNTY  CLARE 22 

OH,  ISLE  OF  MINE 23 

OLD  NORTH  WALL  OF  DUBLIN,  THE 55 

OUR  MARTYRED  THREE 58 

OLD  FIRESIDE,  THE 61 

OLD  BOG  ROAD,  THE 77 

OLD  ROAD  HOME,  THE 91 

PATSY  MAGUIRE 49 

PARNELL 75 

PLACE  WHERE  I'M  WANTING  TO  BE 27 

ROADWAY  OF  MY  HEART,  THE 6 

ROBERT  EMMET 16 

ROSARY  TIME 33 

ROCKY  ROAD  TO  DUBLIN,  THE 43 

ROLL  BACK  THE  STONE 84 

SONGS  OF  THE  DAWN 2 

SOD  FROM  GAL  WAY,  A 25 

SPRING  MEMORY,  A 38 

TAKIN'  TAY  AT  RIELLYS' 72 

THRAMPIN'  DOWN  TO  SLIGO 86 

WHEN  I  WAS  LEAVING  IRELAND 63 

WHEN  MIKE  CAME  BACK 71 

A  DHOC  AN  DHORRIS 92 


SONGS   OF   THE   DAWN. 


INSCRIPTION. 

UNTO  my  own,  the  Irish,  I  send  with  smiles  and 

tears 
This  little  book  of  melodies  caught  from  the  flying 

years; 

With  all  the  love  within  me  and  all  the  best  I  know 
I'd  call  them  back  o'er  many  a  track  to  lands  of 

long  ago. 

The  cuckoo's  call  in  Springtime,  the  thrush's  song 

at  morn, 
The  rainy  winds  that  whispered  across  the  ripening 

corn, 
The  little  daisies  clustering  where  all  their  kindred 

sleep, 
I'd  bring  them  back  o'er  memory's  track,  though 

seeing  were  to  weep. 

For  O,  my  kindred  Irish,  more  tears  than  smiles  we 

know 
Whose  feet  across  the  nations  still  wander  to  and 

fro. 


2  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

But  maybe  when  the  wistful  shades  from  those  old 

scenes  are  drawn 
You'll    hear    through    all    the    homeward    call    of 

Ireland's  Songs  of  Dawn. 


SONGS  OF  THE   DAWN. 

"  SING  us  a  song  of  the  Dawn,"  we  cried, 

"  For  night  drags  wearily  by 
With  never  a  star  and  the  winds  blow  wide 

Through  the  leaden  depths  of  the  sky." 
Then  one  with  a  dream  in  his  eyes  arose, 

"  I'll  chant  ye  a  rhyme,"  said  he, 
"  Of  the  Irish  dawnings  of  gold  and  rose 

Remembered  by  you  and  me." 

Silvery  shimmer  of  crystal  dews,  murmur  of  dark 
ling  woods, 

Stir  of  a  wet  wind  moving  abroad  in  the  high  hills' 
solitudes; 

Flutter  of  wings  in  the  hawthorn  hedge,  one  golden 
note  long  drawn, 

Then,  hush,  hush,  'tis  the  thrush,  aye  'tis  the  thrush 
and  the  Dawn. 

Dawn,  dawn,  dawn,  from  the  doorway  of  night  she 

slips, 
Dawn,  dawn,  dawn,  God's  mystic  hush  on  her  lips, 


Songs  of  the  Dawn.  3 

Slow  moving  on  to  her  woodland  herald  with  glim 
mering  veils  undrawn, 

Over  the  edge  of  the  whirling  world  she  cometh, 
the  Dawn,  the  Dawn. 

Dripping  with  honey  and  fragrance,   fraught  with 

the  passion  of  life 
With  the  ache  of  the  soul's  deep  places,  the  call 

of  a  new  day's  strife, 
With   tears   and   laughter   and   longing   for   things 

from  our  ways  withdrawn, 
While  the  stars  swing  back  from  her  misty  track, 

she  cometh,  the  Dawn,  the  Dawn. 

Oh,  sure  if  the  earth  were  piled  this  hour  o'er  our 

senseless   forms  of  clay 
Somehow  we  would  thrill  to  the  pulse  of  her,  our 

Irish  Dawn  o'  the  day, 
We  would  feel  and  stir  in  our  sleeping  where  the 

curtains  of  death  are  drawn 
When  the  wee  brown  thrush  on  the  hawthorn  bush 

sang  out — "  'tis  the  Dawn,  the  Dawn." 

We  would  stir  and  wake  for  her  beauty's  sake  for 

the  gold  of  the  highest  star 
Hath  never  a  wonder  warm  and  close  as  the  hues 

of  her  coming  are, 
And  the  Angel  of  rest  at  His  Lord's  behest  where 

the  astral  shades  are  drawn 
Would  whisper, — "  Hush,  'tis  the  little  brown  thrush 

and  the  Dawn,  Dawn,  Dawn." 


4  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

The  voice  of  the  singer  in  silence  died 

And  no  man  spoke  for  a  space 
For  each  was  afar  on  some  green  hillside 

In  the  olden  home  of  his  race, 
Then,  dashing  a  tear  from  his  furrowed  cheek, 

A  veteran  bronzed  and  grey 
Cried  "  Yea,  'tis  the  sob  of  our  souls  ye  speak. 
But  what  of  that  other  great  Dawn  we  seek — 

The  Dawn  of  our  Freedom's  Day?  " 

O,  we  leaped  to  our  feet  with  a  wild  fierce  cry, — 

'Tis  the  Dawn,  Dawn,  Dawn, 
God's  finger  is  tracing  it  o'er  our  sky  where  the  long, 

long  night  hath  gone. 
The  stars  are  drenched  with  the  glory  of  it  and 

suns  in  its  wake  are  drawn 
As  out  of  the  heart  of  the  Infinite  it  cometh,  our 

Dawn,  our  Dawn. 

Dawn,  Dawn,  Dawn!     O,  red  is  that  break  of  day 
For  the  blood  of  a  million  veins  has  fed  its  stream 

of  light  on  the  way; 
Its  heralding  song  was  the  centuried  crash  of  steel 

upon  vengeful  steel 
And  the  trusty  pike  and  the  musket's  flash  are  the 

spokes  of  its  chariot  wheel. 

O'er  broken  gibbets  and  bitter  graves,   o'er  ruins 

of  home  and  shrine, 

From   God's   own    Face   to   His    faithful    race   it 
beareth  a  sacred  sign 


Songs  of  the  Dawn.  5 

Fraught  with  the  Truth  that  alone  survives  when 

the  last  earth  fetter  is  gone, 
Down  the   bloody   rack  of  the   centuries'   track   it 

cometh,  our  Dawn,  our  Dawn. 

With  the  awful  wisdom  of  sorrow,   yea,   and  the 

passion  of  deathless  life, 
With  Faith  that  has  seen  its  promised  day  and  joy 

of  a  gaining  strife; 
With   sobbing  of  prideful  laughter   for  days  that 

are   dead   and  gone 
O'er   the    clearing   path   of    an    outlived   wrath    it 

cometh,  our  Dawn,  our  Dawn. 

O,  lay  we  to-day  in  the  shrouding  clay  we  would 

hark  to  its  bugle  call 
And  our  bones  would  wake  with  their  fiery  ache  to 

follow  its  free  foot-fall, 
For  the  Angel  of  Victory  poised  on  high  o'er  the 

currents  of  time   and   fate 
Would   thrill    the    spheres    with   his   gladsome    cry 

when  the  gods  had  unbarred  its  gate. 
We   would    feel    the    surge    of   that   upward   urge 

though  dark  were  the  death  shades  drawn 
And  the  deepest  deep  could  not  bar  our  leap  to  the 

Dawn,  Dawn,  Dawn." 


Songs  of  the  Dawn. 


THE    ROADWAY    OF    MY    HEART. 

A  BIG  road  circles  round  the  world,  sure  fine  it  is 

they  say, 
But  the  little  boreen  of  my  heart  runs  lone  and  far 

away. 

'Tis  winding  over  weary  seas  with  many  a  sigh  beset 
But  O,  of  all  the  roads  I  know  it  is  the  dearest  yet. 

By  common  ways  and  common  homes  and  common 

graves  it  goes 
But  no  one  knows  its  beauty  like  the  soul  within  me 

knows ; 
Its  dawns  are  drenched  with  dews  from  heaven,  its 

nights  are  tearful  sweet, 
And  sometimes  One  long  crucified  walks  there  to 

guide  my  feet. 

It  leads  me  down  by  purple  hills  where  fairies  sport 

o'  nights 
It  shows  me  many  a  hawthorn  lane,  the  scene  of 

dead  delights, 

It  clothes  again  with  living  fire  the  faces  laid  away 
Beneath  the  cold  of  grass  and  mould,  my  road  of 

yesterday. 

O'  twilit  boreen  of  my  heart,  the  world  is  vague 

and  vast 
But  you  are  holy  with  the  balm  of  all  my  hallowed 

past; 


Mayo.  1 

You  thrill  me  with  the  touch  of  hands  my  hands 

were  wont  to  hold, 
You  lure  me  with  the  lilt  of  dreams  I  dreamed  and 

lost  of  old. 

The  big  road  of  the  world  leads  on  by  many  a 

stately  town, 
But  the  little  boreen  of  my  heart  keeps  ever  drifting 

down 
By  common  ways  and  common  graves  and  common 

homes,  but  Oh! 
Of  all  the  roads  in  life  it  is  the  sweetest  road  I 

know. 


MAYO. 

THE  wild  waves  thunder  for  evermore  at  the  feet 

of  her  standing  there 
With  the   storm  clouds  lightning  laden  above  the 

scarps  of  her  mountains  bare; 
But  the  sun  on  her  heart  is  golden  and  the  tenderest 

rain  mists  go 
Like  whispers  of  God  o'er  her  sacred  sod  our  Queen 

of  the  west,  Mayo. 

The  blood  in  her  veins  is  vibrant  with  the  pride  of  a 

mighty  race 
And  the  deeds  and  souls  of  her  deathless  dead  shine 

out  from  her  fearless  face, 


8  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

And  though  the  wiles  of  her  witcheries  are  soft  as 

an  April  snow 
With  a  burning  flame  hath  she  seared  her  name  on 

the  hearts  of  her  foes,  Mayo. 

Yea,  though  her  sons  are  scattered  afar  to  the  utter 
most  winds  of  heaven 

And  the  sword  of  a  million  agonies  the  core  of  her 
soul  hath  riven, 

Seek  not  for  a  broken  spirit  there,  a  weeper  in  hope 
less  woe, 

But  a  Watcher  who  waits  with  wide  flung  gates  for 
her  own  to  come  back,  Mayo. 

Seek  not  for  a  suppliant  kneeling  low  to  the  lords 

of  a  Saxon  land — 
Mayo  to  kneel  while  the  world  holds  steel  to  grasp 

in  her  fighting  hand — 
O,  no,  by  Heaven,  that  world  shall  fall  and  the  sun 

from  its  orbit  go 
Ere  knee  she'll  bend  to  stranger  or  friend  for  the 

Rights  that  she  claims,  Mayo. 

Then  roll  the  call  from  her  battlements  o'er  the 

clamor  of  winds  and  waves, 
Here  is  place   for  the  free  and  fearless,  yea,   but 

never  a  home  for  slaves, 
Here's  the  open  hand  and  the  open  heart  for  those 

who  her  love  would  know 
But  the  crashing  might  of  her  arm  to  smite  the  foes 

of  her  hearth,  Mayo. 


Mayo.  9 

Here's  the  welcoming  word  and  the  kindly  way,  the 

laugh  and  the  voice  of  cheer, 
Here  is  faith  to  the  nation  in  life  and  death  and  a 

courage  that  knows  no  fear; 
Here's  the  mind  to  plan  and  the  will  to  dare  and  the 

veins  that  are  all  aglow 
With  the  passionate  leap  of  souls  that  sweep  to  the 

front  of  the  fray,  Mayo. 

O,  holy  her  sod  as  a  dream  of  God  and  sweet  are 

her  home-lit  ways, 
And  the  wind  blown  heights  of  her  mountains  thrill 

to  the  glory  of  greater  days; 
With  the  storm  clouds  lightning  laden  above  and 

the  thunderous  seas  below 
She  stands  in  the  strait  where  the  lords  of  Fate  have 

willed  her  to  reign,  Mayo. 

To  reign  till  the  utmost  heavens  are  rolled  like  a 

scroll  in  the  Maker's  hand 
For  the  stars  are  bright  with  her  destiny,  its  pulse  is 

quick  in  the  land; 
O,  Watcher,  who  waits  with  wide  flung  gates  for 

the  home  turned  tides  to  flow 
Look  up  to  the  dawn  for  the  night  has  gone  and 

Day's  in  the  east,  Mayo. 


10  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 


A  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

WHAT  Christmas  gift  shall  I  send  you,  Mother, 

What  Christmas  gift  shall  I  send  to  you? 
Too  poor  am  I  to  befriend  you,  my  Mother, 

And  my  notes  of  praising  are  faint  and  few. 
But  I'll  send  you  my  heart's  love,  Erin,  my  Mother, 

My  love  and  the  sob  of  a  homesick  cry, 
That  God  will  yet  lead  me  back  to  you,  Mother, 

If  only  to  die. 

O,  sure  I  am  haunted  by  visions  forever, 

Of  you  in  all  weathers  from  laughing  spring, 
When  primrose  blossoms  are  all  aquiver, 

And  winds  go  swift  as  a  swallow's  wing, 
To  the  beautiful  summers  with  which  God  crowned 
you, 

When  first  He  called  you  from  starry  space 
And  throned  you  queen  of  the  waters  round  you, 

His  glory  lighting  your  face. 

But  lovely  and  dear  to  our  hearts  forever, 

Sure  yours  is  the  beauty  that  grows  not  old, 
The  steadfast  hope  and  the  high  endeavor, 

The  faith  and  the  dreams  that  will  always  hold. 
And  I'll  pray  you'll  be  true  to  your  destined  promise, 

True  to  the  soldiers  that  fought  your  fight, 
True  to  that  faith  never  foe  took  from  us. 

For  truth  shall  reach  to  right. 


The  Croppies'  Grave.  1 1 

Aye,  I'll  pray  that  the  teachings  by  Patrick  given 

Will  help  and  keep  you  through  ill  and  good, 
Till  some  fair  morn  the  Lord  in  Heaven 

Will  send  you  the  crown  of  your  nationhood. 
Nor  alone  am  I  in  my  prayers,  mavourneen, 

Love  of  a  race  that  is  scattered  afar, 
There   are   tears   and   prayers   for  your  weal   this 
morning, 

Wherever  your  exiled  children  are. 

Sure  the  dust  of  our  dead  is  laid  in  your  bosom, 

With  the  hopes  and  the  joys  that  our  childhood 

knew, 
And  all  in  our  lives  of  beauty  and  blossom 

Is  shrined  in  the  bygone  there  with  you. 
Then  this  is  my  gift  to  you  Christmas  morning, 

My  love  and  the  sob  of  a  homesick  cry, 
That  God  will  yet  lead  me  back  to  my  "  stoirin," 

If  only  to  die. 


THE    CROPPIES'    GRAVE. 

'  Tis  under  the  Lia  Fail  they  lie,  quiet  and  lone  and 

still, 
Where  the  winds  of  the  world  are  roaming  o'er  the 

summits  of  Tar  a  hill; 
Quiet  and  still  and  lonely  with  the  things  that  have 

ceased  to  be, 
'Tis  under  the  Lia  Fail  they  lie,  the  Stone  of  our 

destiny. 


1 2  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Under  the  Lia  Fail,  O  God,  where  the  throne  of 

our  kings  was  set, 
And  even  the  mould  remembers  the  days  of  their 

glory  yet; 
Under  the  Lia  Fail  that  lifts  its  shoulder  above  the 

sod 

Like  some  high  beacon  of  majesty  that  summons 
the  eye  of  God. 

O,  lonely  it  is  in  Tara  where  the  beating  of  rain  is 

known, 
And  only  the  kine  are  sentinels  by  the  place  of  our 

Crowning  Stone; 
Where  down  in  the  dreary  darkness  of  things  that 

have  ceased  to  be 
Our  murdered  Croppies  are  lying  'neath  the  Stone 

of  our  destiny. 

King  and  soldier  and  lordly  knight,  turret  and  door 

and  hall, 
Bard  and  lover  and  lady  bright,  what  lives  of  your 

life  at  all? — 
A  marking  ridge  in  the  sheathing  grass,  a  mound  by 

the  Lia  Fail 
And  a  wind  going  by  like  a  Banshee's  cry  o'er  the 

broken  dreams  of  the  Gael. 

Aye,  but  that  wind  of  Tara  has  swept  over  Aileach's 

hall, 
And  the  four  high  roads  of  the  world  that  have 

known  the  deeds  of  us  all; 


The  Croppres'  Grave.  13 

It  has  kissed  Ramillies  and  Fontenoy,  it  has  swung 

through  a  dawning's  flame 
O'er  a  grave  in  the  heart  of  Dublin  that  waits  for 

a  hero's  name. 


Behold,  'tis  a  mightly  signal,  that  Stone  of  our 
destiny, 

Sealing  the  Erin  of  ancient  days  to  an  Erin  that  .KS 
to  be, 

And  where  could  a  faithful  Croppy  find  holier  rest 
ing  place 

Than  here  where  the  winds  of  Tara  are  blowing 
above  his  face? 

'Tis  under  the  Lia  Fail  they  lie,  quiet  and  lone  and 

still, 
'Neath  the  crowning  place  of  an  Ard  Righ  on  the 

summit  of  Tara  Hill; 
And  sure  'twas  a  fitting  burial,  for  king  of  his  race 

is  he 
Who  flings  his  life  on  the  altar  stone  of  his  country's 

liberty. 


1 4  bongs  of  the  Dawn. 


KERRY. 

O,  'TIS  over  beyant  in  Kerry  the  roots  of  my  heart 

are  set, 
And  'tis  over  beyant  in  Kerry  the  dreams  of  my  life 

are  yet, 
Sure   the   spirit   was   broken   in   me   that   desolate 

winther's  morn 
When  I  turned  away  from  ye,  Kerry,  where  I  and 

my  race  was  born. 

The  sun  was  hid  in  the  heavens,  the  wind  with  a 

wild  unrest 
Was   moanin'    among   the   shadows,    a    rain   cloud 

swung  in  the  west ; 
There  was  no  glimmer  of  brightness,  no  shinin'  on 

earth  or  sky 
When  I  kissed  the  sod  of  ye,  Kerry,  in  a  long  and  a 

last  good-bye. 

Ochone,  ochone  for  ye  Kerry,  if  wishes  were  sails 

and  ships, 
'Tis  I  would  be  speedin'  to  you  with  songs  of  joy  on 

my  lips. 
Sore  sick  of  the  exile's  rovin'  I'd  go  where  my  youth 

was  passed 
To  ease  the  ache  in  my  bosom  and  sleep  with  my 

own  at  last. 


Kerry.  15 

My  hands  are  so  weary  of  toilin'  always  on  the 

sthranger's  floor, 
There   are   no   smiles   on   the   faces   I   see   by  the 

sthranger's  door. 
'Tis  little  for  me  they're  carin'  and  little  of  them  I 

know 
And  the  core  of  my  heart  is  lonesome  for  Kerry  and 

long  ago. 

For  the  old  thatched  home  of  my  father,  the  turf 

fires  warm  and  bright, 
The  pleasant  song  and  the  story  when  neighbors 

dhropped  in  at  night, 
The  wild  bogs  purple  with  heather,  the  ring  of  the 

crossroads  set 
For  dancin'  on  summer  evenin's  to  tunes  that  I  can't 

forget. 

Sure    all   day   long   I    am   lookin'    at   pictures   like 

these  instead 
Of  the  busy  wonderful  city  where  I  earn  my  scanty 

bread, 
Thinkin'    'tis    whitewashed    cabins    I'm    seein'    on 

Broadway  sthreet, 
And  the   old   road  down  to   Killarney  undher  my 

achin'  feet. 

Oh,  nowhere  in  all  the  world  is  the  grip  of  a  hand 

so  thrue, 
Or  the  lilt  of  a  laugh  so  cheerin'  as  Kerry,  asthore, 

with  you. 


16  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Misty  with  rain  and  sunshine,  and  filled  with  songs 

of  the  sea, 
Like  fairy  music  at  midnight,  you're  callin'  the  heart 

from  me. 

Callin'  and  hauntin'  and  callin',  like  the  ghost  of  my 

mother  gone, 
While  every  vein  of  my  Irish  heart  leans  out  to  you 

dark   and   dawn. 
O,  home  of  the  silver  wathers,  kingly  and  kind  and 

thrue, 
God  bless  you  old  County  Kerry,  for  He  never  made 

match  for  you. 


ROBERT  EMMET. 

"  MY  lamp  is  almost  extinguished  and  I  go  to  my 

grave,"  he  said, 
"  There  let  me  lie  in  oblivion,  a  nameless  stone  at 

my  head, 
The  charity  of  their  silence  I  ask  from  my  fellow 

men 
Till  Erin,  a  Nation,  leaps  to  life  from  the  ashes  of 

death  again." 

And  they  gave  him  the  boon  he  craved  for,  a  grave 

in  a  quiet  place, 
The  grave  that  has  been  the  Mecca  of  all  the  hearts 

of  his  race 


Robert  Emmet.  1 7 

In  the  track  of  their  ceaseless  wanderings,   those 

Ishmaels  faring  forth 
To  set  the  seal  of  their  hand  and  heel  on  all  the 

nations  of  earth. 

Outside  in  the  heart  of  Dublin  is  the  street  where 

his  gallows  stood, 
And  those  that  have  ears  to  hear  may  list  to  the  drip 

of  his  ghostly  blood 
At  the  meeting  of  night  and  morning  when  Dawn 

like  a  priestess  flings 
The  mystic  star  of  her  breast  ajar  to  the  soul  of 

unburied  things. 

Behold   the   vision   before   you,   what   see   you, — a 

hangman's  rope 
Or  a  life  to  redeem  our  manhood  set  high  on  the 

hills  of  hope? 
What  see  you, — a  young  head  severed  in  the  name 

of  a  hated  law 
Or  set  in  his  country's  coronet  a  jewel  without  a 

flaw? 

O,  Emmet,  our  unforgotten,  though  lone  be  your 

grave  to-night 
The  hands  of  a  million  earnest  men  are  ready  your 

name  to  write. 
The  hands  of  a  million  fighting  men  are  waiting 

with  flags  unfurled 
To  set  your  name  like  a  sword  of  flame  o'er  all  the 

names  of  the  world. 


18  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Above  the  fetters  of  ages,  o'er  ruin  and  shame  and 

blood 
Behold  the  star  of  our  promise  glows  white  on  the 

heights  of  God, 
For  never  was  life  of  martyr  or  dream  of  a  hero 

cast 
In  the  alchemy  of  the  centuries  but  blossomed  to 

life  at  last. 

"  With   other   men   and   with   other   times   let   my 

reckoning  be,"  he  said, 
And  lo,   upon  Erin's   battlements  the   feet   of  the 

Dawn  are  red. 
On  the  dial  of  Time  and  destiny  the  hour  of  our 

Fate  is  shown, 
Now  who  of  the  Gael  shall  faint  or  fail  to  stand 

by  that  nameless  stone? 

Fling  back  the  tears  from  your  faces  and  swear  by 

his  grave  again 
And  swear  by  the  broken  body  that  died  that  you 

might  be  Men, 
By  our  hope  of  a  freemen's  future  and  the  tears  of 

our  tortured  past 
That  Emmet's  name  like  a  sword  of  flame  shall  lead 

us  to  light  at  last. 


The  Boy  from  County  Down.  \  9 


THE  BOY  FROM  COUNTY  DOWN. 

A  BOY  with  the  dreams  of  a  man  was  he,  a  lad  from 

a  lonesome  place, 
And  he  turned  away  from  his  family  the  width  of 

the  world  to  face; 
Light  of  pocket  and  heavy  of  heart  he  started  from 

Newry  town 
And  his  soul  grew  sick  as  he  paused  to  part  from  the 

meadows  of  County  Down. 

He  set  his  bundle  beside  the  road  and  looked  with 

a  sob  of  pain 
To  the  Mourne  mountains  and  all  abroad  where  he 

never  might  come  again; 
Then   plucking    a  primrose    from    the    hedge,    for 

Spring  was  green  on  the  sod, 
He  fared  away  on  his  wanderings  with  his  fate  in 

the  hands  of  God. 

O,  many  a  tear  did  his  mother  weep  in  Rosaries 

said  for  him 
And  his  father's  sorrow  looked  wide  and  deep  from 

eyes  that  were  growing  dim, 
But  the  boy  who  parted  from  County  Down  was 

out  in  the  world  of  men 
Seeking  the  wealth  in  a  far  off  town  that  should 

carry  him  home  again. 


20  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Then  when  the  hair  on  his  head  was  white  and  the 

step  of  him  faint  and  slow 
Said  he  "  'tis  back  by  the  morning's  light  to  the  land 

of  my  youth  I'll  go, 
"  Though  my  parents  both  in  the  graveyard  be  and 

the  noon  of  my  life  is  set 
"  Sure  County  Down  is  the  same,"  said  he,  "  and 

the  mountains  are  standing  yet." 

He  journeyed  back  from  the  world  of  men  and  the 

soul  of  him  leaped  with  joy 
To  see  the  Mourne  mountains  again  and  the  fields 

where  he  roamed  a  boy. 
But  sure  he  had  toiled  to  the  doors  of  doom  in 

many  a  far  off  town 
And  he  died  when  the  primrose  buds  were  in  bloom 

by  the  hedges  of  County  Down. 


MISSIN'  THE   CHILDHER. 

WHIN  daylight  fades  from  the  cabin  floor 

And  night  winds  stir  in  the  big  ash  three, 
'Tis  meself  sits  lonesome  beside  the  door, 

Missin'  the  childher  that's  gone  from  me. 
Matt  and  Mary  and  Patsy  and  Mike, 

My  three  sthrong  boys  and  my  girleen  dear; 
Sure,  'tis  only  a  few  short  days  belike 

Since  I  saw  thim  playin'  around  me  here. 


Missiri  the  Childher.  21 

Kind  and  dacint  and  aisy  to  rear, 

The  bate  of  my  childher  was  not  on  earth; 
And  the  only  sorrow  they  made  me  bear 

Was  an  impty  house  and  a  silent  hearth. 
But  sure  with  so  many  to  clothe  and  keep, 

And  nothin'  behind  whin  rint  was  due, 
I  made  no  moan  whin  they  crossed  the  deep, 

But   God  and  His   Mother — They  knew,   They 
knew. 

My  Mary's  a  sarvint  in  Boston  town, 

And  Mike  and  Matt  are  away  out  West; 
While  Patsy,  the  rover,  sthrays  up  and  down, 

Wherever  the  foot  of  him  likes  it  best. 
But  never  a  wan  of  thim  fails  to  write 

With  the  monthly  money  and  news  go  leor; 
But,  och,  'tisn't  money  I  want  to-night, 

But  my  four  fine  childher  about  the  door. 

Mary  keeps  sayin',  "  In  spring,  plase  God, 

I'll  be  landin'  back  to  you  safe  and  sound; 
For  nowhere  is  good  as  the  good  old  sod, 

And  no  one  like  you  in  the  four  seas  round. 
Sure,  I'm  cravin'  a  whiff  of  turf  fire  smoke, 

And  a  sight  of  my  mother  so  snug  and  sweet, 
In  her  white-frilled  cap  and  her  big  blue  cloak, 

That  bate  all  the  fashions  in  Boston  Sthreet." 

O,  Mary,  my  girleen,  never  at  all 

Do  I  be  spakin'  of  pain  or  ache; 
But  at  night  whin  the  corncrakes  call  and  call 

My  heart  goes  wild  for  my  darlins'  sake. 


22  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

When  shadows  lie  on  the  lonesome  floor, 
And  night  winds  stir  in  the  big  ash  three, 

Thin  I  sit  by  meself  at  the  open  door, 

And  cry  for  the  childher  that's  gone  from  me. 


OLD    COUNTY    CLARE. 

O,  BANNACHT   Dhia  leath  go  bragh  old  County 

Clare  to  you. 
From  the  roads  that  go  by  Ennis  to  the  streets  of 

Killalo. 
'Tis  many  a  day  I  wandered  there  and  drove  my 

donkey's  cart 
By    rows    of    hawthorn   hedges    that    are   scenting 

all  my  heart. 

God   made   your   face   so   beautiful   and   fashioned 

you  so  sweet, 
No  wonder  I  am  longing  for  your  sod  beneath  my 

feet. 
No  wonder  I  am  wearying  where  dust  and  dryness 

be 
For  a  windy  April  morning  on  the  headlands  of 

Kilkee. 

O,  Bannacht  Dhia  leath  go  bragh  to  all  the  ways  I 

knew 
From  the  roads  around  by  Ennis  to  the  streets  of 

Killalo; 


Oh,  Isle  of  Mine.  23 

'Tis  I'll  be  going  back  some  day  to  see  the  hawthorns 

there 
And  rest  my  weary  bones  with  you,  Oh  good  old 

County  Clare. 


OH,  ISLE  OF  MINE. 

OH,  Isle  of  mine  where  the  seas  are  sighing, 

'Tis  you  are  searing  my  soul  with  pain; 
'Tis  you  are  holding  me,  live  or  dying, 

With  the  grip  of  a  loving  that  loves  in  vain. 
For  though  the  clouds  in  your  skies  are  massing 

Soft  rains  to  fall  on  your  breast  like  dew, 
The  stars  above  in  their  age  long  passing 

Are  marking  the  roads  that  I  go  from  you. 

Oh,  Isle  of  mine  where  the  sunset  lingers 

With  soft  sweet  kisses  on  leaf  and  sod, 
As  though  'twas  fearing  to  loose  its  fingers 

From  things  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  God. 
Oh,  tender  Isle,  where  the  Dawn  comes  breaking 

The  mists  before  her  with  slow  footfall, 
Sure  the  inmost  core  of  my  soul  is  aching 

To  sit  beside  you  and  know  it  all. 

Oh,  brave  old  Isle,  with  your  face  undaunted 
Set  skywards  still  where  the  winds  are  free, 

Sure  many  a  man  by  your  loving  haunted 

Is  walking  alone  through  the  lands  like  me. 


24  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Aye,  dreaming  we  are  of  trusty  rifles 

To  voice  our  hate  for  your  foes  outhurled, 

But  the  stranger's  toil  at  our  elbow  stifles 
The  cries  that  we  fling  you  across  the  world. 


Oh,  Isle  of  mine  where  the  ancient  glories 

Of  ages  linger  by  hill  and  dell, 
The  harper's  song  and  the  Druid  stories, 

The  old  traditions  that  poets  tell. 
Sure  never  a  stranger's  hand  could  fashion 

A  love  to  better  the  love  we  knew, 
Whose  faith  and  fancy  and  hope  and  passion 

Oh,  Grah  Machree,  we  have  left  with  you. 

Oh,  Isle  of  mine,  where  the  winds  are  beating 

A  mystic  tally  of  things  to  be, 
The  stars  above  in  their  nightly  greeting 

Are  telling  a  wondrous  tale  to  me. 
"  Behold,"  they  cry,  and  their  acclamation 

Is  echoed  again  from  the  Throne  Divine, 
"  You  shall  kiss  the  feet  of  her  yet,  a  Nation, "- 

Oh,  Soul  of  the  soul  of  me,  Isle  of  mine. 


A  Sod  from  Galway.  25 


A  SOD  FROM  GALWAY. 

'Tis  a  bit  of  earth,  mavourneen,  just  a  bit  of  Gal- 
way  clay, 

That  I've  borne  in  my  bosom  many  a  weary  night 
and  day, 

For  I  thought  whin  lavin'  Ireland  I  could  aisier 
toil  and  rest 

With  this  bit  of  poor  owld  Galway  treasured  here 
upon  my  breast. 

'Deed    you    needn't    laugh,    alanna,    when    you're 

eighty  years  I  vow 
You'll   have   many   a   whim   and   fancy  that  you'd 

never   dhrame   of   now, 
But  not  bein'  born  in  Galway  'tis  a  mysthery  out 

to  ye 
How  such  lovin'  thoughts  are  cinthered  in  a  bit  of 

earth  for  me. 

Often  whin  the  heartache's  on  me  and  I'm  grievin' 

for  the  past, 
Out   I   dhraw  it   from   its   hidin'   closin'   down  my 

eyelids  fast, 
And  it  sweeps  me  off  in  fancy  like  a  sudden  flash 

of  light, 
To  the  breezy  plains  of  Connaught  with  the  brown 

hills  left  and  right. 


26  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

There  I  see  the  town  and  river  with  the  white  road 

windin'  by, 
And  the  hills  of  Connemara  lift  their  foreheads  to 

the  sky; 
Every  neighbor's  house  I  visit,  every  field  and  farm 

I  see, 
And  the  wans  long  dead  and  buried  live  and  laugh 

again  with  me. 

When  I  close  my  eyes  in  airnest  never  more  to 
open  thim, 

And  you'll  know  the  Lord  has  called  me  home  to 
Heaven  and  rest  and  Him, 

Will  you  place  within  my  coffin  where  my  heart- 
bates  used  to  be, 

By  my  beads  and  Cross,  alanna,  this,  and  I  will 
pray  for  ye. 

Thin  I'll  sleep  as  calm  and  aisy  as  if  restin'  with 

my  own 
In  that  owld  graveyard  in  Galway  by  my  father's 

burial  stone, 
Just  as  if  the  earth  above  me  was  as  green  with 

wavin'  grass, 
And  the  Connacht  neighbors  steppin'  to  and  from 

the  Sunday's  Mass. 

And   I'll   have   no   fear  of   risin'   whin   the   Angel 

sounds  his  call, 
With  my  native  earth  about  me  I  can  foot  it  with 

thim  all, 


The  Place  Where  I'm  Wanting  to  Be.  27 

Takin'   rank  amongst  my  people  in  the  Judgment 

Hall  of  God, 
I'll  be  neither  odd  nor  lonesome  with  my  bit  of 

Galway  sod. 

Wirra,  but  'tis  hard  I'm  dying,  poor  and  owld  this 

blessed  day, 
Me  that  once  had  full  and  plenty  long  ago  and  far 

away; 
But  sure  betther  died  afore  me,  and  I'll  be  no  worse 

with  God 
That  my  very  heart  sthrings  tighten  round  a  bit  of 

Galway  sod. 


THE   PLACE  WHERE   I'M  WANTING 
TO  BE. 

WHERE  swallows  are  skimming  and  wheeling  above 

an  old  roof  that  I  know, 
And  little  winds  weary  of  stealing  the  scent  of  the 

clover   swing  low, 
Where   cowslips   droop   down   in   the   meadow  too 

drowsy  with  sweetness  to  see 
My   soul   flitting   by  with   the   shadows,    'tis   there 

where  I'm  wanting  to  be. 

Where  dawning  comes  down  in  the  valleys  like 
saint  from  the  footstool  of  God, 

A  thousand  wild  airs  in  her  chalice  to  whisper 
across  the  green  sod, 


28  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Where  thrushes  are  dreamily  chanting  love  songs 

in  the  sycamore  tree 
That  shelters  the  place  of  my  wanting  the  home 

where  I'm  wishing  to  be. 

There's  beauty  enough  for  the  finding  through 
earth  from  the  east  to  the  west, 

But  little  of  that  am  I  minding  who  love  my  own 
country  the  best; 

For  her  rain  haunted  skies  and  no  other  have  heal 
ing  and  magic  for  me, 

And  I  cry  for  the  breast  of  my  Mother,  the  place 
where  I'm  wanting  to  be. 


JERRY  CONNOR'S  FORGE. 

BY  the  crossroads  of  Knockallen  where  the  bog  and 

upland  meet, 
There's  a   tidy  row  of  houses  that  the  neighbors 

call  "  the  street"  ; 
It  is  free  and  independent,  though  it  pays  its  tax 

to  George, 
For   it   runs   its   own   Home   Parliament   in   Jerry 

Connor's  forge. 

In  the  quiet  dusk  of  evening,  when  the  iron  hammer 

rings, 
That   mighty   song   of  labor  that   has    raised   and 

routed  kings, 


Jerry  Connor's  Forge.  29 

The  members  take  their  places,  with  their  backs 

against  the  wall, 
And  who  but  Jerry  Connor  should  be  leader  of 

them  all. 

For    the    tangles    of    Westminster    there's    little 

patience  there, 
Where  State  affairs  are  settled  in  the  shoeing  of  a 

mare; 
And  bills  that  Whig  and  Tory  view  with  sinking  of 

the  heart 
Are  fixed  while  Jerry  rims  the  wheel  of   Kelly's 

donkey  cart. 

'Tis  there  the  Kaiser's  law  is  scorned,  the  Czar  is 

roundly  cursed, 
And  every  ruling  head  declared  no  better  than  the 

worst, 
When    the    world    around,     from    China    to    the 

Rockies'  farthest  gorge, 
Is  tried  before  the   Parliament  in  Jerry  Connor's 

forge. 

Pat  Murphy  is  Conservative,  and  likes  to  hold  his 

views, 
Apart  from  other  people's,  like  the  bluest  of  the 

"blues"; 
So  when   "  you're   right  there,   Jerry,   lad,"   arises 

from  the  throng, 
He'll  croak:    "  Bedad  ye  may  be  right — but  then 

ye  may  be  wrong." 


30  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Mat   Reilly  is   a   Socialist,   Jim   Byrne   stands   for 

peace, 

But  little  Billy  Hennessy  has  little  time  for  these, 
With  five  feet  two  drawn  up  to  look  like  six  he'll 

fiercely  cry — 
'  Thank  God,    I'm   still   a   Fenian,   boys,    and  not 

afraid  to  die." 


So  though  Westminster  debates  Home  Rule  for 
Erin  still, 

It  long  has  passed  the  Parliament  beside  Knock- 
alien  hill; 

Where  destinies  of  nations,  from  the  Caesars  down 
to  George, 

Are  settled  while  a  mare  is  shod  in  Jerry  Connor's 
forge. 


THE  IRISH  RANK  AND  FILE. 

AYE,  give  them  a  foremost  place  to-day,  when  you 

honor  your  patriot  dead. 
With  your  bravest  and  best,  Columbia,  let  the  tale 

of  their  deeds  be  read; 
Chant    forth    in    exultant    chorus    their    annals    so 

grandly  true — 
The  rank  and  file  of  our  mother  isle  who  died  in 

the  dark  for  you. 


The  Irish  Rank.  a^d  File.  31 

They  came  from  the  hills  of  Erin  away  from  a 

tyrant's  ban, 
Seeking  a  home  on  your  kindlier  shore,  where  a  man 

may  be  a  man; 
Holding  your  friends  as  chosen  friends,  your  foes 

as  their  hated  foes, 
Faithful  to  death  in  blood  and  breath  were  those 

loyal  Mac's  and  O's. 

What   matter   if   now   your   history's   page    record 

not  the  names  they  bore? 
To  the  corps  of  your  Irish  regiments  be  glory  for 

evermore ; 
For  shamed  defeat  nor  craven   retreat   feared  ye 

when  their  lines  swung  forth 
From  the  torrid  scenes  of  the  Philippines  to  your 

farthest  outpost  north. 

Sure  they  drew  it  out  of  their  mother's  breasts — 

that  love  of  a  righteous  strife, 
That  ceaseless  striving  for  Liberty,  the  crown  of 

a  white  man's  life. 
And  where   could  their  high  ideal  be   found  in  a 

shackled  earth, 
But  here  by  your  side,  Columbia,  whom  the  war  gods 

blest  in  birth? 

In  the  mould  of  forgotten  burial  grounds  the  dust 

of  their  dead  hands  lies, 
And  silence  hangs  on  the  battle  fields  once  stirred 

by  their  charging  cries. 


32  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

They  sought  no  guerdon  but  victory,  as  they  fell 

in  a  common  pile, 
Unknelled,    unknown,    but    their    duty    done — the 

Irish  rank  and  file. 


Then  give  them  a  foremost  place  to-day;  for  your 
summit  of  greatness  stands 

By  the  blood  of  their  veins  cemented,  the  work  of 
their  resting  hands; 

And  the  rags  of  those  tattered  war  flags  they  car 
ried  through  flame  and  scars 

Shine  forth  this  hour  in  the  strength  and  power  of 
your  glorious  Stripes  and  Stars. 

Columbia,  Queen  of  the  Western  Gate,  whose  boun 
tiful  hands  outspread 

To  the  exiled  poor  of  the  older  lands  give  succor 
of  peace  and  bread. 

We  ask  no  boon  but  the  best  you  have,  the  highest 
you  ever  knew, 

For  the  rank  and  file  of  our  ancient  isle  who  has 
given  its  best  to  you. 


Rosary  Time.  33 


ROSARY  TIME. 

AT  the  fall  of  the  night  in  Ireland  when  Spring  in 

the  land  is  fair, 
At  the  fall  of  the  night  in  Ireland  when  passionate 

June  is  there, 
When  woods  are  ruddy  in  Autumn  or  hoary  with 

winter's  rime, 
At  the  fall  of  the  night  in  Ireland  'tis  Rosary  time. 

With   book   and  beads   in   her  fingers  the   mother 

goes  to  her  place 
The  holy  candle  beside  her,  the  peace  of  God  in 

her  face, 
And    out    of   their    chosen    corners    the    voices    of 

children   chime 
At  the  fall  of  the  night  in  Ireland,  at  Rosary  time. 

Outside  the  song  of  the  robin  is  hushed  in  his  shel 
tered  nest, 

The  wind  with  a  rainy  sweetness  is  sighing  itself 
to  rest, 

The  world  with  her  old  time  longing  swings  low  to 
a  minor  rhyme 

At  the  fall  of  the  night  in  Ireland,  at  Rosary  time. 

Oh,  many  a  dream  of  beauty  shines  up  from  the 

lowest  sod 
And  many  a  golden  duty  binds  men  to  the  feet  of 

God, 


34  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

But  the  sorest  passion  of  living  is  stilled  to  a  chord 

sublime 
At  the  fall  of  the  night  in  Ireland,  at  Rosary  time. 


JOGGIN'    INTO    NAAS. 

JOGGIN'  into  Naas,  my  lad, 

Joggin'  to  the  fair, 
Sure  many  a  pleasant  day  I  had 

When  I  was  younger  there; 
Along  the  road  from  Timahoe 

With  darkness  on  my  face 
I'd  start  before  the  first  cock  crow, 

Joggin'   into  Naas. 

A  load  of  good  black  turf  I'd  have 

Or  else  a  pig  or  two, 
A  crate  of  fowl,  a  little  calf, 

And  butther  fresh   as   dew, 
And  then  'twould  be  "  God  save  ye,  Tim," 

From  neighbors  every  place 
As  day  came  breakin'  soft  and  dim 

Along  the  road  to  Naas. 


And  sure  'tis  often  we'd  be  pressed 
By  friendly  farmers  there 

To  stop  awhile  and  take  a  rest, 
Meself  and  Moll  the  mare. 


HERSELF  AT  HOME  " 


Joggin  Into  Naas.  35 

And  many's  the  steamin'  cup  of  tea 

I've  lifted  to  my  face 
From  some  goodnatured  "vanithee" 

Along  the  road  to  Naas. 


'Twas  pleasant  meetin'  neighborin'  men 

And  swappin'  counthry  chat, 
For  papers  then  were   far  between 

And  hard  to  get  at  that. 
And  pleasant  sure  it  was  to  go 

Sthravagin'   round  the  place 
For  fairin's  for  herself  at  home 

When  I'd  get  back  from  Naas. 

Aye,  aye,  an  owld  man  loves  to  talk 

Of  things  long  passed  away, 
But  though  'tis  feeble  grows  my  walk 

I  had  my  time  and  day 
Along  the  road  from  Timahoe, 

When  dawnin'  lit  my  face, 
And  joggin'  to  the  fair  I'd  go, 

Joggin'   into  Naas. 


36  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 


HUNTING    THE    WREN. 

O,  DON'T  you  remember  over  in  Ireland  when  you 

went  hunting  the  wren, 
And  don't  you  wish  you  were  over  in  Ireland  this 

day  of  St.  Stephen  again? 
But  sure  the  white-lipp'd  ocean  is  flowing  in  billows 

of  drenching  foam 
Between  the  way  that  your  feet  are  going  and  the 

warm  hearth  lights  of  home. 

'Twas  Christmas  time  and  the  holly  and  ivy  hung 

from  rafter  and  wall 
And  you  slipped  out  to  the  garden  slyly  to  answer 

your  comrades'  call, 
Your  mother  looked  up  with  a  smile    (God  bless 

her),  your  father  stood  by  the  door, 
The   firelight   flickered   on   shelf   and   dresser   and 

played  on  the  earthen  floor. 

Outside  the  ways  were   rigid   in  winter,   the   skies 

were  heavy  with  snow, 
But   you   and   the   weather   were    friends   together 

back  there  in  the  long  ago. 
Through  hill  and  hollow  and  brake  and  brier  you 

scrambled  the  whole  day  through 
Till  the  wee  brown  bird  of  your  heart's  desire  was 

lost  in  the  dark  on  you. 


Fishing.  37 

There  were  Matt  and  Pat  and  Maurice  and  Andy, 

there  was  Tim  the  leader  of  all, 
There  was  Mike  Malone,  who  could  flip  a  stone 

straight  over  a  ten  foot  wall; 
Brave  lads,  o'er  many  a  wearier  way  their  feet  have 

travelled  since  then, 
But  their   hearts   are   as   true   to   the  past   as  you 

when  the  wren  days  come  again. 


'Tis  Christmas  time  in  the  old  Land  now,  there  is 

brooding  snow  in  the  wind, 
The  turf  light  flickers  on  shelf  and  dresser  with 

holly  and  ivy  twined. 
But  you  and  I  by  the  stranger's  hearth  think  back 

to  old  times  again, 
To  the   dear  home   ways   and  the  Stephen's   days 

when  we  went  hunting  the  wren. 


FISHING. 

ONE  day  in  summer  I  went  a  fishing 

Where  Dublin  reaches  to  meet  Kildare, 
And  nobly  laden  beyond  all  wishing 

The  cool  of  the  evening  found  me  there. 
The  bells  from  Leixlip  were  softly  falling 

Across  the  meadows  in  vesper  chime, 
And  the  song  of  a  sleepy  thrush  was  calling 

The  world  to  rest  with  his  silver  rhyme. 


38  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

You  came  down  walking  beside  the  river, 

While  corncrakes  shrilled  to  the  darkening  skies, 
And  I  the  fisher,  was  caught  forever 

By  the  lure  of  Love  in  your  dreamy  eyes. 
The  primrose  blossoms  were  blooming  round  you, 

The  winds  were  kissing  your  braided  hair, — 
Now  the  fish  are  safe  since  the  day  I  found  you 

Where  Dublin  reaches  to  meet  Kildare. 


A   SPRING    MEMORY. 

,  it  was  in  the  pleasant  spring  weather, 

When  daffodils  shone  on  the  lea; 
A  new  bloom  was  bright  on  the  heather 

And  spring  winds  blew  in  from  the  sea ; 
A  blackbird  sweet  music  was  making 

Below  in   the  blossoming   dell, 
And  nature  to  gladness  was  waking 

That  day  when  we  met  at  the  well. 


Your  eyes  were  like  Avon's  brown  water 

When  shaded  by  summer-clad  trees, 
Your  voice  like  the  blackbirds  in  Oughter, 

Your  step  was  as  free  as  the  breeze; 
And  I  with  my  brimming  pail  lingered 

To  while  the  sweet  moments  away, 
Till  evening  came  in  dewy  fingered 

And  closed  the  dead  eyelids  of  day. 


A  Spring  Memory.  39 

We  talked  of  the  news  and  the  weather, 

And  chatted  of  things  round  about : 
How  bright  was  the  bloom  of  the  heather, 

How  bravely  the  young  leaves  hung  out; 
And  then  in  a  whisper  you  told  me 

The  story  that  ever  is  new, 
And  I  with  the  stars  to  behold  me 

Repeated  that  love  tale  to  you. 

Alas  for  the  days  that  are  over! 

Alas  for  the  springs  that  are  dead! 
Alas  for  the  dusky-eyed  lover 

Who  lies  with  the  mould  at  his  head! 
And  though  a  March  wind  there  is  blowing 

And  daffodils  shine  on  the  lea, 
An  ocean  is  foaming  and  flowing 

Between  my  far  country  and  me! 

But  in  the  dim  palace  of  dreaming 

My  fancy  sees  visions  by  night 
Of  dewy  eyes,  dusky  and  gleaming 

Like  Avon's  waves  checkered  by  light; 
And  sun-like  in  rain-darkened  weather 

This  picture  arises  to  me; 
A  youth  and  a  maiden  together 

When  spring  winds  blew  in  from  the  sea. 


40  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 


THE    OLD    LAND. 

I  KNOW  a  land  far,  far  away, 
Set  in  a  northern  sea, 

Her  hills  are  green  and  her  skies  are  grey 
And  my  heart  is  there  by  night  and  day; 
For  she's  dearer  than  life  to  me. 
Her  sons  are  brave  and  her  daughters  fair 
And  her  ways  are  sweet  and  kind, 
And  all  that  was  best  in  my  life  is  there, 
Left  far  behind. 

The    days    of    my   youth    with    their    glooms    and 

gleams, 

Of  passing  joy  and  pain; 
The  golden  hopes  and  the  glorious  dreams 
I  never  will  know  again. 
The  meadow  path  and  the  sycamore  shade, 
The  valleys  where  cowslips  blow, 
Where  I  and  my  comrades  laughed  and  played, 
Long,  long  ago. 

How  well  I  remember  the  old  home  place 

With  the  fireside  circle  there, 

The  smile  on  my  mother's  gentle  face; 

My  father's  silvery  hair. 

O,  the  songs  we  sang  and  the  tales  we  told 

While  wintry  storms  drove  past 

And  the  sands  of  life  were  as  sands  of  gold 

From  Time's  best  hour  glass  cast. 


The  Old  Land.  41 

Now  my  mother's  lips  are  quiet  and  cold 

And  my  father's  heart  is  still, 

The  days  are  long  and  the  world  seems  old, 

And  I  sigh  for  a  far-off  hill, 

Facing  the  track  of  the  morning  star 

Where  my  kindred's  ashes  are. 

Thus  out  of  the  clamor  of  toiling  men 

My  heart,  like  a  homing  dove, 

Flies  back  to  the  days  of  its  youth  again, 

And  the  land  of  its  earliest  love. 

For  to  be  a  child  on  those  green  field  ways, 

My  mother's  kiss  on  my  brow, 

Were  better  than  all  the  glory  and  praise 

This  world  can  give  me  now. 

O,  beautiful  Ireland!    far  away, 

There  is  nothing  so  sweet  and  true 

As  your  hills  of  green  and  your  skies  of  grey 

And  the  whole-souled  ways  of  you; 

Remembered   as   saints    remember   God — 

Your  children  cannot  forget 

The  olden  ways  and  the  olden  sod, 

(The  cowslipped  ways  where  their  feet  first  trod) , 

And  the  churchyard  grasses  set 

With  drifts  of  daisies  all  dewy  wet, 

Where  the  graves  of  kindred  are  soft  and  deep. 

And  its  O,  to-night  for  so  sweet  a  sleep, 

In  that  Land  I  know,  that  old,  old  Land. 


42  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 


AT   THE    FOOT    OF    THE    HILL. 

WHAT  did  you  say  at  the  foot  of  the  hill? 

The  winds  had  died  and  the  snow  was  fallin', 
The  frosty  hedges  were  white  and  still, 

A  robin  out  of  the  dusk  was  callin'. 
But  Love  cares  nothin'   for  winter's  chill. 
O,  what  did  you  say  at  the  foot  of  the  hill? 

You  said  you  would  love  me  ever  and  ever, 
You  kissed  me  thrice  in  the  gloamin'  then, 

And  then  you  crossed  o'er  the  big  black  River 
Whence  never  comes  word  from  the  sons  of  men. 

Where  the  frosty  hedges  are  white  and  still 

I  wait  to-night  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

A  lonesome  wind  from  the  dusk  is  callin', 
The  robin  sleeps  in  his  sheltered  nest, 

The  velvety  snow  is  fallin'  and  fallin' 

Above  the  grasses  that  clothe  your  rest; 

In  the  infinite  Love  of  the  Father's  will 

My  soul  claims  you  from  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Over  the  woods  that  look  to  the  west 

A  white  star  shines  through  the  wintry  air 

And  a  thrill  of  peace  from  the  world's  unrest 
Tells  me  'tis  well  with  you  over  there. 

And  so  I'll  be  waitin'  my  time  until 

You  seek  me  here  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 


"  ALONG  THE  ROAD  TO  DUBLIN 


The  Rocky  Road  to  Dublin.  43 


THE   ROCKY   ROAD   TO   DUBLIN. 

IF   I   was  on   the   rocky   road,   the   rocky   road  to 

Dublin, 
With  nothing  but  a  tinker's  load,  'tis  Tittle  I'd  be 

throublin' ; 
Within  my  fist  a  blackthorn  stick  and  Irish  brogues 

to  walk  in, 
I'd  fling  my  sorrows  to  old  Nick  and  sing  instead 

of  talkin'. 


Sthravagin'  on  from  town  to  town  and  down  old 

boreens  jauntin', 
The  bite  and  sup  and  lyin'  down,  sure,  I'd  be  never 

wantin', 
For  there  the  doors  stand  open  wide  on  friend  and 

stranger  waitin', 
And  for  an  Irish  turf  fireside  I've  yet  to  see  the 

batin'. 


I'd  pull  primroses  by  the  way  and  hear  the  larks 

and  thrushes, 
I'd   watch   the   twilight   shadows   play    among   the 

greenin'  bushes; 
I'd  find  the  place  where  long  ago,  ere  years  began 

their  throublin', 
I  wandhered  with  a  girl  I  know  along  the  road  to 

Dublin. 


44  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Och,  och,  my  eyes  are  growin'  dim,  or  is  it  tears  that 

blind  me  ? — 
Sure  many  a  day  she's  gone  to  Him  who  put  that 

cross  behind  me, 
But  still  her  spirit  walks   abroad,   where  many  a 

sthrame  is  bubblin' 
And  winds  are  blowin'  down  the  road,  the  rocky  road 

to  Dublin. 

Aye,  there  'tis  not  the  chilly  look,  the  distant  nod  of 

greetin', 
But  "bannacht  leath,"  "God  save  ye,"  and  "good 

morrow,"  I'd  be  meetin', 
'Twould    be,    "Sit    down    and    rest    awhile,"    and 

"Arrah,  what's  your  throublin'  "? 
For  life  has  time  for  many  a  smile  along  the  road 

to  Dublin. 

Faith,  sore,  I'm  parched  for  mist  and  rain,  I'm  sick 

of  sunny  weather; 
I  want  my  blackthorn  stick  again,  my  brogues  of 

Irish  leather. 
Then  give  me  but  a  tinker's  load,  'tis  little  I'll  be 

throublin', 
If  undherneath  me  is  the  road,  the  rocky  road  to 

Dublin. 


Kildare.  45 


KILDARE. 

SAY,  what  of  Kildare — is  she  waking  or  sleeping 

Now  the  day  of  our  testing  is  growing  apace? 
And  mighty  as  winter-tossed  billows  onleaping 

Wild  "farrahs"  ring  out  from  the  lips  of  our  race ! 
What  of  Kildare,  ever  foremost  and  ready, 

Whenever  our  war-flag  was  raised  for  the  right, 
Has  she  lifted  her  standard,  true-hearted  and  steady, 

Where  Kildare  ought  to  be — in  the  thick  of  the 
fight? 


The  shrine  of  St.  Brigid  whose  Lamp  ever  burning 

Shone  out  like  a  star  on  the  ramparts  of  God, 
The  home  of  Lord  Edward,  our  eagle  of  morning — 

Could  traitors  abide  on  so  sacred  a  sod! 
Could  fear  of  defeat  or  despair  of  a  morrow 

Find  place  where  the  ashes  of  Tone  are  at  rest — 
Is  there  room  for  a  coward  or  time  for  a  sorrow 

With  "Croom  a  boo"  watchword  and  oak  tree  for 
crest ! 


No,  from  Naas  to  Maynooth  rings  the  slogan  of 
"Freedom." 

From  Newbridge  to  Leixlip,  Kilcock  to  Athy, 
The  men  of  Kildarra  are  there  when  we  need  them 

They  know  how  to  fight  and  they  know  how  to  die. 


46  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

There  the  spirit  of  liberty  hovers  unsleeping 

Where   rebels   and  martyrs   found  birth   and   a 

grave, 
And  the  murdered  of  Mullaghmast  watch  still  are 

keeping 
O'er  fields  never  trod  by  the  foot  of  a  slave. 


Sure  the  challenge  she  threw  in  the  face  of  the 

foeman 
Of  old  when  her  clans  flashed  their  falchions  in 

air 
Is  still  to  the  fore  for  a  finish,  and  no  man 

Shall  humble  the  shield  of  Fitzgerald's  Kildare. 
Unconquered,  invincible,  steadfast  forever, 

With  a  hand  for  the  south  and  the  north  and  the 

west 
The  foremost  in  onset,  the  latest  to  waver, 

She  stands  with  the  Counties,  the  first  of  the  best. 


Kildare  is  awake  for  she  never  has  slumbered 

Whenever  the  summons  to  battle  went  forth, 
The  deeds  of  her  dead  with  the  bravest  are  numbered 

The  sons  of  her  soil  are  the  salt  of  the  earth. 
As  true  as  the  Liffey  that  sweeps  ever  onward 

Through  sunshine  and  storming,  through  shadow 

and  light. 
Kildare  holds  her  standard  aloft  in  the  vanguard 

Where  Kildare  ought  to  be — in  the  thick  of  the 
fight. 


The  Old  Borecn.  47 


THE  OLD  BOREEN. 

OH,  do  you  remember  the  old  boreen  that  is  many  a 
mile  away, 

And  the  rushy  pool  where  the  shades  lay  cool  at  the 
close  of  a  summer  day? 

And  do  you  remember  the  robin's  song  in  the  haw 
thorn  hedge  that  grew 

By  the  garden  gate  that  so  long  must  wait  for  a 
home-coming  sight  of  you  ? 

Oh,  do  you  remember  the  low  white  house  with  its 

coating  of  yellow  thatch, 
The  earthen  floor  and  the  open  door  that  swung  to 

a  ready  latch, 
The  fire  of  turf  and  the  cheery  hearth  where  you 

gathered  at  evening's  fall, 
The  dresser  shelf  with  its  shining  delph  and  the  old 

clock  on  the  wall? 

Come,  let  us  away  from  the  noisy  town,  the  clamor 

of  crowded  marts; 
We  will  go  where  the  pulse  of  life  beats  low  to  the 

music  of  quiet  hearts, 
Where  corncrakes  shrill  through  the  scented  dusk 

and  dew-drenched  meadows  are  sweet, 
And  the  green,  green  sod  like  a  balm  from  God  hath 

healing  for  tired  feet. 


48  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Down  the  winding  ways  of  the  old  boreen  we  will 

wander  on  spirit  wings, 
While   the   haunted   air   like   a   mystic's   prayer   is 

a-quiver  with  namelesss  things; 
The  crickets  will  chirp   a  welcome  home   and  the 

daisies  look  up  to  see, 
While  the  long,  long  years  that  have  drained  our 

tears  shall  fall  from  us,  you  and  me. 

We  will  take  our  way  to  the  fairies'  well,  for  deep  in 

its  crystal  flow 
May  linger  gleams  of  those  broken  dreams  we  left 

in  the  long  ago; 
Gazing  again  in  its  murmuring  deeps  we  may  see  in  a 

blinding  light 
The  care-free  ways  of  our  childhood  days  shine  out 

to  our  souls  to-night. 

Then  when  the  low  moon  sinks  in  the  west,  and  the 

thrill  of  dawn  is  at  hand, 
We  will  wing  our  flight  with  the  dying  night  to  the 

shores  of  this  other  land; 
But  the  strength  and  peace  of  our  reveries  and  the 

balm  of  that  sod  so  green 
Will  ease  the  strife  of  our  exiled  life  so  far  from  the 

old  boreen. 


Patsy  Maguire.  49 


PATSY    MAGUIRE. 

OLD  Patsy  Maguire  lived  down  in  Athlone, 

He'd  a  neat  little  cot  and  a  field  of  his  own, 

His  singing  began  with  the  first  risen  lark 

And  that  same  old  "come  all  ye"  would  welcome  the 

dark; 

For  only  one  song  in  the  world  did  he  know 
And  that  was  "a  colleen  dhas  cruithin  am  bo." 

His  hair  was  as  white  and  as  thick  as  the  frost 
That  lies  on  the  meadows  the  phooka  has  crossed, 
But  the  glint  of  his  eye  was  as  roguish  and  bright 
As  a  daisy  in  May  looking  up  to  the  light, 
And  the  voice  of  him  never  a  tremor  did  know 
As  he  chanted  "a  colleen  dhas  cruithin  am  bo." 

In  the  long  winter  nights  there  was  never  a  fire 
Could  draw  all  the  boys  like  the  hearth  of  Maguire, 
For  he'd  tell  you  of  fairies  and  ghosts  till  your  skin 
Like  a  dead  goose  was  puckered  without  and  within, 
And  the  road  to  your  home  was  a  horror  beset 
By  all  the  dark  "sperrits"  that  Patsy  had  met. 

With  the  end  of  his  stick  in  the  ashes  he'd  show 

How  many  a  battle  was  fought  long  ago 

When  his  grandfather  shouldered  the  pike  that  was 

laid 
By  the  side  of  his  bed  with  the  notch  on  its  blade. 


50  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

"Sure  some  of  thim  yeomen  were  tougher  than  wire 
And  steel  couldn't  stand  thim,"  said  Patsy  Maguire. 

He  had  starved  in  the  famine,  the  fever  had  known, 
He  had  stood  with  the  boys  who  struck  out  for  their 

own; 
He  had  dreamed  with  the  dreamers,  had  met  what 

they  met, 

"But  failure's  a  word  that  we  haven't  spelt  yet, 
And  fightin's  a  game  that  all  true  men  require 
To  keep  thim  continted,"  said  Patsy  Maguire. 

'Tis  many  a  year  since  his  footsteps  were  known 
By  the  bridge  and  the  river  of  storied  Athlone, 
And  many  a  summer  its  riches  has  cast 
O'er  that  sturdy  old  Fenian  so  true  to  the  last; 
But  never  a  death  chill  could  conquer  the  fire 
That  beat  in  the  heart's  blood  of  Patsy  Maguire. 

For  far  in  those  realms  where  brave  men  are  blessed 
And  nothing's  too  good  for  earth's  truest  and  best, 
He  is  seated  to-night  in  a  place  of  his  own 
With  a  welcome  for  all  from  the  town  of  Athlone; 
And,  whatever  the  songs  of  the  seraphs,  I  know 
He  still  sings  "a  colleen  dhas  cruithin  am  bo." 


Independence  Day.  51 


INDEPENDENCE     DAY. 

WHEN   God  unbarred  the   eastern  gates   for  that 

great  Day  to  rise 
A  burning  flood  of  glory  sped  across  His  trackless 

skies, 
It  circled  round  the  slumbering  world  in  tongues  of 

ghostly  flame, 
And  fired  the  farthest  tribes  of  men  with  Freedom's 

sacred  name. 

It  rocked  the  thrones  of  despot  kings  as  though  an 

earthquake  spoke; 
It  bade  the  cowering  serf  arise  and  spurn  his  galling 

yoke; 

It  whispered  to  the  beaten  slave  of  other  days  to  be, 
When  he   amongst  his   fellowmen   should  stand   a 

Man,  and  Free. 

By  burning  sands  and  icy  wold  that  high  Evangel 

went, 
Till  east  and  west  and  north  and  south  in  one  red 

flame  were  blent; 
And  mankind,  with  a  surging  joy,  felt  in  his  soul  the 

seed 
Of  God's  eternal  Liberty  acclaim  Columbia's  deed, 

O  Land,  whose  flag  the  stars  in  heaven  salute  with 

answering  call! 
Whose  stripes  proclaim  the  bonds  you  broke  for 

freemen  one  and  all ! 


52  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Whose  hovering  eagle  screams  abroad  across  the 

struggling  earth — 
"No  power  can  hold  a  Nation  down  that  claims  its 

rights  of  birth!" 


You   hold   the   greatness   of   the    days   unborn    to 

History  yet ; 
You  hold  the  sequel  of  the  ways  whose  guiding  stars 

are  set; 
The  keys  of  time  are  yours,  O  Herald,  who  guards 

the  future's  fate, 
For  all  the  life  streams  of  the  world  commingle  in 

your  gate. 

In  you  the  old  world's  dreams  come  true,  the  cry  for 
breadth  and  space; 

The  yearning  for  a  fuller  life  with  sunshine  on  the 
face; 

You  are  the  goal  of  shackled  feet,  the  covenantal  ark 

Of  many  a  storm-tossed  soul  who  sees  your  light 
nings  through  the  dark. 

You  taught  in  words  of  flaming  fire  a  gospel  fierce 

and  free; 
And  sealed  it  with  your  blood  before  the  shrine  of 

Liberty; 
You  flung  your  challenge  in  the  face  of  tyranny,  and 

then 
Invincible,  triumphant,  rose  a  Mecca  unto  men. 


A  Christmas  Song.  53 

All  hail,  all  hail,  Columbia !  God's  high  anointed 
one, 

With  feet  upon  His  southern  verge  and  forehead 
to  His  sun ! 

You  caught  the  scattered  lights  of  earth  in  one  en 
during  ray 

When  Freedom's  fires  were  loosed  from  Heaven 
that  Independence  Day. 


A   CHRISTMAS   SONG. 

O  LORD,  as  You  lay  so  soft  and  white, 

A  Babe  in  a  manger  stall, 
With  the  big  star  flashing  across  the  night, 

Did  you  know  and  pity  us  all? 
Did  the  wee  hands,  close  as  a  rosebud  curled, 

With  the  call  of  their  mission  ache, 
To  be  out  and  saving  a  weary  world 

For  Your  merciful  Father's  sake? 


Did  You  hear  the  cries  of  the  groping  blind, 

The  woe  of  the  leper's  prayer, 
The  surging  sorrow  of  all  mankind, 

As  You  lay  by  Your  Mother  there? 
Beyond  the  shepherds,  low  bending  down, 

The  long,  long  road  did  You  see 
That  led  from  peaceful  Bethlehem  town 

To  the  summit  of  Calvary? 


54  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

The  world  grown  weary  of  wasting  strife, 

Had  called  for  the  Christ  to  rise; 
For  sin  had  poisoned  the  springs  of  life 

And  only  the  dead  were  wise. 
But,  wrapped  in  a  dream  of  scornful  pride, 

Too  high  were  its  eyes  to  see 
A  Child,  foredoomed  to  be  crucified, 

On  a  peasant  Mother's  knee. 

But,  while  the  heavens  with  glad  acclaim 

Sang  out  the  tale  of  Your  birth, 
A  mystic  echo  of  comfort  came 

To  the  desolate  souls  of  earth. 
For  the  thrill  of  a  slowly  turning  tide 

Was  felt  in  that  grey  daybreak, 
As  if  God,  the  Father,  had  sanctified 

All  sorrow  for  One  Man's  sake. 

O  Child  of  the  Promise!  Lord  of  Love! 

O  Master  of  all  the  earth! 
While  the  angels  are  singing  their  songs  above, 

We  bring  our  gifts  to  Your  birth. 
Just  the  blind  man's  cry,  and  the  lame  man's  pace, 

And  the  leper's  pitiful  call; 
On  these,  over  infinite  fields  of  space, 

Look  down,  for  You  know  them  all. 


The  Old  North  Wall  of  Dublin.  55 


THE  OLD  NORTH  WALL  OF  DUBLIN. 

THE  old  North  Wall  of  Dublin,  O,  well  'tis  it  I  know 
Where  lazy  tides  keep  drifting  in  ceaseless  ebb  and 

flow, 

The  old  North  Wall  of  Dublin  with  the  seagulls  cir 
cling  low. 


The  old  North  Wall  of  Dublin,   'tis  there  I'd  be 

to-day 
With  salt  winds  sweeping  in  my  face  the  breath  of 

dancing  spray 
As  tender  as  the  mother's  hands  I  left  in  Irish  clay. 


O,  sure  the  paths  are  wearisome  that  exiled  feet  must 

tread 
And  many  a  wistful  dream  of  home  hangs  round  the 

exile's   bed, 
And  many  a   bitter  tear    they  know  who  eat  the 

stranger's  bread. 


But  over  all  the  weariness  and  all  the  pains  that  be 
Asthore,  'tis  looking  back  we  are  o'er  lonely  leagues 

of  sea 
To  the  old  North  Wall  of  Dublin  with  the  long  tides 

running  free. 


56  .     Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Thank  God  in  all  our  wandering  for  olden  dreams 

that  stay, 
For  gleams  beneath  a  scorching  sun  of  dancing  Irish 

spray 
And  a  wet  wind  blowing  gladness  o'er  the  old  North 

Wall  to-day. 


Thank  God  that  somewhere  in  the  years  that  circle 

round  the  sun 
One  day  is  speeding  swiftly  when  our  exile  will  be 

done 
And  down  beside  the  old  North  Wall  we'll  see  the 

grey  tides  run. 


We'll  watch  the  seagulls  wheeling  out  across  the 

misty  strand 
Where  many  a  flower  is  blooming  in  that  far  and 

pleasant  land, 
And  the  old  North  Wall  of  Dublin, — we  will  kiss  it 

where  we  stand. 


THE  CONNAUGHTMAN'S  RAMBLES. 

PLAY  it  again  till  the  rill  and  the  thrill  of  it 
Gladdens  my  soul  like  a  voice  over  seas, 

Sing  it  and  swing  it  till  I  get  my  fill  of  it 
And  all  the  sore  places  of  life  are  at  ease. 


The  Connaughtman  s  Rambles.  57 

Fling  it  right  up  to  the  skies'  high  admiring, 
For  many  a  Connaughtman's  rambles  afar 

Have  touched  such  a  passion  of  earthly  aspiring 
'Twas  only  the  heavens  that  set  him  a  bar. 


There,  sure  I'm  seeing  a  primrose  in  blossom, 

There,  sure  I  knew  'twas  a  shamrock  I  met; 
Beauty  of  blooming  and  dreams  of  my  bosom 

God  couldn't  live  if  you  weren't  there  yet. 
Daisies  and  buttercups,  fields  full  of  clover, 

Dawning  and  twilight  and  wonder  of  sod, 
God  couldn't  live  if  I  was  not  your  lover 

For  worship  of  beauty  is  worship  of  God. 

Over  the  world  and  down  to  the  soul  of  it 

The   "Connaughtman's   Rambles"   have  sounded 

their  call, 
Deep  in  our  hearts  is  the  mystical  roll  of  it, 

The  passion  for  home  that  is  tearing  us  all. 
O,  ye  of  her  breast  with  the  blood  of  her  best  in  ye 

Faring  afar  o'er  so  many  a  track, 
Listen  and  hear  'tis  to  ye  and  the  rest  of  ye 

Old   Connaught    is   calling   "O,    Childher,    come 
back." 


58  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 


OUR  MARTYRED  THREE. 

AYE,  set  them  high  on  your  gallows  tree 

Where  the  noose  of  a  hangman  waits, 
And  the  ribald  cries  of  your  rabble   rise 

Outside   of   their   prison   gates; 
Let  them  stand  in  the  dawn  of  your  murky  skies 

So   the   nations   of   men   may  see 
How  Erin  offers   a   sacrifice 

On  the  altars  of  Liberty. 

The  world  hath  plenty  of  mouthed  wars 

And  aims  that  the  gods  despise, 
Was  ever  a   victory  blessed  by   Mars 

Achieved  by   a   braggart's   cries? — 
No,  the  hero's  blood  and  the  bullet's  hum 

Are  Liberty's  pangs  of  birth, 
And  by  these  must  be  settled  the  awful  sum 

Of  tyranny's   debt  to   earth. 

Then  stand  them  high  with  their  eyes  to  the  light 

Those  sons  of  a  soldier  race, 
Each  strand  of  their  halter  marks  their  right 

To  glory's  innermost  place ; 
And  their  "God  Save  Ireland"  boldly  hurled 

From  the  portals  of  death  will  fling 
Its  echoes  forever  around  the  world 

While  the  soul  of  the  Celt  is  King. 


Caniel^dhu.  59 

This  day  will  die  at  the  setting  of  sun, 

But  the  fame  of  our  noble  Three 
Will  live  till  the  uttermost  sands  are  run 

Of  the  Land  that  they  died  to  free. 
For  the  justice  of  God  is  lightning  shod 

And  tyrants  pass  in  a  day 
But  the  hero's  word  and  the  martyr's  blood 

Shall  be  saviors  of  men  for  aye. 


And  not  for  the  land  of  their  birth  alone 

Do  they  swing  from  your  beams  of  shame, 
But  for  every  struggle  the  world  has  known 

In  Liberty's  holy  name. 
For  the  striving  Right  against  ruthless  might 

Wherever  the  bonds  may  bind 
Young  Allen,  O'Brien  and  Larkin  die 

A  ransom  for  all  mankind. 


CARRICKDHU. 

LAST  night  'tis  I  was  dreamin' — and  dreams   are 

queer  you  know; 

I  dreamt  I  was  in  Ireland  the  same  as  long  ago. 
And  Micky  Moore  the  fiddler  played  all  the  tunes  I 

knew, 
Who   danced   the    Rinnca    Fadha   beyond   in    Car- 

rickdhu. 


60  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

And  there  was  Patsy  Callaghan,  and  there  was  Mat 

Malone, 
And  little  Timmy  Sullivan,  though  long  he's  dead 

and  gone ; 
And  there  was  Kitty  Shaughnessy,  and  all  the  girls 

I  knew 
Who   danced  the   Rinnca   Fadha   with  me   in   Car- 

rickdhu. 

A  silver  moon  was   shining   above  the  mountain's 

crest, 
And  in  the  graveyard  down  below  my  mother  lay  at 

rest, 
And  Mickey  Moore  the  fiddler  played  low,  for  old 

time's  sake, 
"  The  Coulin  "  and  "  The  Blackbird  "  till  I  thought 

my  heart  would  break. 

Then    Jamesy    Murphy    sang    a    song    about    the 

"Fenian   Men," 
And   Billy   Daly   followed   with    "A   Nation   Once 

Again," 
And  Micky  Moore  the  fiddler,  who  loved  me  fond 

and  true, 
Played  all  his  music  out  to  me  that  night  in  Car- 

rickdhu. 

O,  when  the  ship  that  bore  me  sped  to  a  stormy 

wind, 

And  all  I  ever  loved  were  left  so  many  a  mile  behind, 
'Tis  I  was  feeling  sorely,  the  best  in  life  I  knew 
Was  there  behind  in  Ireland,  behind  in  Carrickdhu. 


;THE  OLD  FIRESIDE' 


The  Old  Fireside.  61 

And  so  in  nightly  visions  and  dreamin'  day  by  day 
'Ts  many  a  thing  I'm  seein'  still  is  lyin'  far  away, 
And  many  a  tune  I'm  listenin'  to  from  one  who  loved 

me  true 
Beyond  in  dear  old  Ireland,  beyond  in  Carrickdhu. 


THE    OLD    FIRESIDE. 

'Tis  sittin'  by  the  stove  I  am  where  all  the  fire  in 

sight 
Would   never    raise    a    blisther    on    a    baby's    arm 

to-night. 
The  wind  goes  tearin'  down  the  sthreet  as  though  the 

imps  below 
Were  out  upon  a  picnic  playin'  ball  with  sleet  and 

snow; 
But  I  am  seein'  in  my  mind  a  hearthstone  broad  and 

wide 
And  a  pile  of  Irish  turf  ablaze  on  the  old  fireside. 

Wan  side  my  mother  sits  and  knits  a  stockin'  meant 

for  me 

My  father's  in  the  corner  seat,  his  paper  on  his  knee 
A  candle  on  the  shelf  beside  gives  all  the  light  he 

needs 
And  granny's  prayin'  for  I  hear  the  rattle  of  her 

beads. 
And  there's  meself  with  naked  shins  a  happy  boy 

beside 
The  blessed  heat  and  comfort  of  the  old  fireside. 


62  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Sometimes  the  wind  and  rain  comes  down  the  chim 
ney  with  a  shout 

And  mother  signs  the  Cross  to  see  the  ashes  dance 
about, 

And  father  laughs  and  says  "bedad,  the  phooka's 
out  to-night," 

And  granny  whispers  "hush,  avic,  some  poor  sowl's 
on  its  flight." 

And  then  we  get  to  thinkin'  of  the  lonesome  wans 
denied 

For  evermore  the  comfort  of  the  old  fireside. 

The  latch  keeps  liftin'  now  and  thin  as  neighbors 

saunther  in 
With  many  a  kind  "God  save  all  here"  and  "God 

save  you  agin," 

And  soon  from  talkin'  politics  at  fairy  tales  they'll  be 
With  stools  dhrawn  up  around  the  hearth  as  close 

as  close  can  be; 
Then  no  one  wants  to  look  behind  afraid  a  ghost 

might  hide 
Among  the  flickering  shadows  of  the  old  fireside. 

I  wondher  wrhere  they  are  to-night,  for  sure  when  all 

is  told 
'Tis  feelin'  out  of  place  they'd  be  on  shinin'  sthreets 

of  gold; 
But  in  the  many  mansions  of  the  Father's  House 

above 
There  may  be  humble  corners  where  the  poor  can 

feel  His  love, 


When  I  was  Leaving  Ireland.  63 

So  in  some  friendly  place  apart  where  all  their  tears 
are  dried 

I  know  I'll  meet  my  neighbors  by  God's  own  Fire 
side. 


WHEN   I   WAS   LEAVING    IRELAND. 

WHEN  I  was  leaving  Ireland  the  leaves  were  falling 

down, 

A  dreary  mist  was  drifting  above  old  Derry  town; 
The  sun  itself  was  clouded  and  frosty  was  the  wind 
When  I  was  leaving  Ireland  who  left  my  soul  behind. 

When  I  was  leaving  Ireland  my  parents  wept  full 

sore, 
The  kindly  neighbors  gathered  in  to  bless  me  o'er 

and  o'er, 

I  clung  around  the  doorway,  I  gazed  on  sky  and  sod 
When  I  was  leaving  Ireland  that  bitter  day  of  God. 

When  I  was  leaving  Ireland  I  watched  the  shore 

line  dip 
Beyond  the  darkling  waters  that  surged  about  the 

ship, 
Then,  with  a  cry  of  longing  none  heard  save  Heaven 

on  high, 
My  soul  sped  back  to  Ireland  to  linger  till  I  die. 

And  there  at  home  in  Ireland  it  is  this  blessed  day 
Though  both  my  parents  dead  and  gone  have  found 
their  house  of  clay; 


64  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

It  sees  the  dawns  and  twilights,  it  feels  the  winds 

and  rain, 
And  when  I  go  to  Ireland  I'll  find  that  soul  again. 


It  may  be  that  in  living  some  ship  may  bear  me  o'er, 
It  may  be  that  in  dying  the  Saviour  I  adore 
Will  bid  a  kindly  angel  convey  me  to  the  sky 
O'er  some  old  road  in  Ireland  I  trod  in  years  gone 
by. 


But  I'll  go  back  to  Ireland,  in  life  or  death  I'll  go, 
For  there  my  soul  is  waiting  with  all  the  loves  I 

know ; 
By  windy  dawns  'tis  waiting  and  twilights  grey  with 

rain 
And  I  must  go  to  Ireland  to  find  that  soul  again. 


LIMERICK. 

O,  LIMERICK,  Limerick,  Limerick,  your  name  on  the 

tip  of  my  tongue 
Is  sweether  than  singin'  of  linnets  when  May  on  the 

meadows  is  young, 
'Tis  kindher  than  dhrippin  of  honey  or  foamin'  of 

milk  to  the  lips, 
O,   Limerick,   Limerick,   Limerick,   my  blessed  old 

Town  of  the  ships. 


Cappagh  Hill.  65 

As  you  sit  on  the  banks  of  the  Shannon,  a  Queen  on  a 

beautiful  throne 
You  are  sealin'  the  right  hand  of  Erin  with  the  gem 

of  the  Threaty  Stone, 
And  the  kindness  and  lovin'  good  nathure  that  fall 

from  the  shine  of  your  face 
Though  spread  o'er  the  rest  of  creation  would  leave 

us  enough  for  the  race. 


Though  over  the  ways  of  the  world  my  feet  may 

go  lonesome  and  wild 
'Tis  ever  the  breast  of  the  mother  is  sweetest  repose 

for  the  child ; 
So  some  day,  please  God  I'll  come  joggin'  back  to 

you  with  songs  on  my  lips 
O,   Limerick,   Limerick,   Limerick,   my  blessed  old 

Town  of  the  ships. 


CAPPAGH  HILL. 

'TWAS  just  last  night  a  dream  I  had 

('Tis  strange  how  dreams  can  thrill) 
I  dreamt  I  was  a  little  lad 

Beyond  on  Cappagh  Hill. 
'Twas  neither  cap  nor  coat  I  had 

For  summer  days  were  fair, 
And  I  was  just  a  happy  lad 

Among  the  meadows  there. 


66  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

I  saw  the  village  roofs  below, 

The  beeches  green  and  cool, 
The  paths  through  "  Cullen's  fields  "  that  go 

Along  the  way  to  school. 
I  heard  my  mother's  voice  ring  clear, 

And  then — I  woke  to  know 
The  crash  of  Broadway  on  my  ear 

For  that  was  long  ago. 


A   NOGGIN   OF   BUTTERMILK. 

You  may  boast  of  your  drinking  for  time  and  a  day, 
You  may  talk  of  the  "  nectar  of  gods  "  as  you  may, 
Sure  they'd  be  like  the  drip  of  a  faucet  to  me 
By  a  noggin  of  buttermilk  home  in  Kilfree. 

In  summer  and  winter,  in  autumn  and  spring, 
The  churn  was  there  and  the  noggin  in  swing 
And  tinker  and  beggar  and  peddler  were  free 
To  drink  Ian  a  baile  beyond  in  Kilfree. 

I  can  see  that  big  dairy  with  crocks  full  of  cream 
As  yellow  as  gold  in  an  old  miser's  dream, 
I  can  taste  how  the  butter  like  nuggets  would  be 
On  top  of  the  noggins  at  home  in  Kilfree. 

A  sycamore  fluttered  its  leaves  by  the  latch 
And  swallows  built  year  after  year  in  the  thatch, 
And  many  a  neighbor's  tin  bucket  would  be 
Filled  up  in  that  dairy  at  home  in  Kilfree. 


As  Ike  Bands  Go  By.  67 

There  was  turf  by  the  clampful  and  cows  in  the 

byre, 

There  was  bacon  in  flitches  and  room  by  the  fire, 
There  was  lashings  and  leavings  flahoolah  and  free 
With  a  "cead  mille  failthe"  beyond  in  Kilfree. 

I'm  sick  of  your  wine  and  I'm  sick  of  your  ale, 
Your  champagne  is  tasteless,  your  liquor  is  stale, 
For  the  draught  of  my  childhood  is  calling  to  me, 
'Tis  a  noggin  of  buttermilk  home  in  Kilfree. 


AS  THE   BANDS   GO   BY. 

AYE,  aye,  aye,  sure  all  day  long  I'm  hearin'  thim, 
The  blessed  tunes  I'm  knowin'  since  I  wasn't  two 

foot  tall ; 

Aye,  aye,  aye,  sure  all  day  long  I'm  cheerin'  thim, 
The  Irish  lads,  avourneen,  that  you  cannot  bate 
at  all. 

Listen  to  the  music,  sure  New  York  is  goin'  wild 

with  it. 
O,  Harp  that  once  old  Tara  knew  'tis  you  is  great 

this  day, 
And  the  green,  green,   green,  sure  the  city  like  a 

child  with  it 

Has  dhressed   itself  in  verdure  like  the  bushes 
home  in  May. 


68  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

"Pathrick's  Day"  and  "Garryowen,"  'The  Meetin' 

of  the  Wathers," 
With  "Come  Back  to  Erin"   ('tis  the  dearest  of 

thim  all) 
Although  I'm  now  an  old  man  with  sthrappin'  sons 

and  daughters 
To-day  I'm  just  a  gorsoon  still  beyant  in  Donegal. 

Aye,  you're  right,  I'm  cryin'  but  my  tears  like  rain 

in  Erin 
Are  just  a  kind  of  tindherness  because  I  love  them 

all, 
The  music  and  the  marchin'   and  the  Irish  voices 

cheerin' 

For  all  the  things   I   used  to   love   at   home   in 
Donegal. 

And  when  beyant  in  Calvary  my  long,  long  rest  I'm 

keepin' 
One  day  in  all  the  year,  bedad,  I'll  wake  and  claim 

my  own, 
For  when  Saint  Pathrick's  Day  is  here  how  could  a 

man  be  sleepin' 

While  all  the  world  is  thrillin'  to  the  lilt  of  Garry 
owen. 


Fiddler  Phil.  69 


FIDDLER    PHIL. 

"COME   give   us   a   scrape   of   the   fiddle"   we   sai-d 

And  drew  from  the  kitchen  shelf 
A  fiddle  as  battered  and  old,  bedad, 

As  Fiddler  Phil  himself; 
For  many  a  summer  and  winter  had  thrown 

Their  heat  and  cold  in  his  face, 
But  his  eyes  held  the  beauty  of  old  Tyrone 

And  the  pride  of  a  princely  race. 

With  brick  and  mortar  and  sand  and  stone 

His  hands  were  roughened  and  brown, 
But  that  fiddle  had  come  from  his  own  Tyrone 

And  spoke  of  his  native  town; 
So  he  touched  the  strings  unto  passionate  cries 

That  swept  the  breath  from  our  lips, 
While  years  of  toiling  and  alien  skies 

Were  bridged  in  a  time  eclipse. 

We  were  back  again  in  the  wind-swept  north, 

Above  us  the  low  clouds  sped, 
Beneath  our  feet  was  our  native  earth 

And  the  graves  of  our  resting  dead; 
We  saw  the  glories  of  old  unroll— 

O'Neill  went  forth  to  the  fray, 
And  our  hands  were  clenched  in  a  storm  of  soul 

For  joy  of  a  battle  day. 


70  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Then  came  a  rushing  of  Maytime  rain 

From  the  purple  peaks  of  the  hills, 
We  saw  the  young  leaves  sway  in  the  rain, 

The  shimmer  of  daffodils. 
We  heard  the  calling  of  mating  birds, 

The  laugh  of  a  mountain  stream, 
While  loch  and  fen  and  valley  and  glen 

Were  a  glory  of  glint  and  gleam. 

Then  Fiddler  Phil  with  his  grey  eyes  set 

O'er  the  verge  of  an  unseen  world 
Muted  the  strings  unto  awful  things 

From  the  edge  of  a  black  night  hurled; 
The  Banshee  cried  and  our  souls  replied 

As  we  shivered  like  reeds  astir, 
For  the  spirit  of  Erin  was  scourged  again 

And  we  wailed  to  the  gods  with  her. 

Then  rising  up  to  the  heights  of  life 

In  a  frenzy  of  joy  and  pride 
He  drew  us  out  of  the  stress  and  strife 

To  the  place  where  our  dreams  abide; 
We  saw  the  Land  of  our  yearning  stand 

In  Liberty's  flame  of  day, 
And  the  Lords  of  the  law  arise  to  draw 

The  veils  from  her  face  away. 

That  wonder  of  melody  died  away, 

Phil  laid  his  fiddle  aside, — 
"Sure  its  old  and  cold  like  meself  "  said  he 

"For  it  died  when  my  young  days  died." 


When  Mike  Came  Back-  71 

"O,  there  is  no  death  for  your  fiddle  or  you," 

We  whispered  in  broken  tone 
"While  hearts  are  loyal  and  souls  ring  true 

To  the  spirit  of  old  Tyrone." 


WHEN  MIKE  CAME  BACK. 

WE  stood  beside  the  door,  meself  and  Kate, 

Watchin'  and  listenin'  down  the  boreen's  thrack, 

A  wild  rose  swung  above  the  garden  gate 
When  Mike  came  back. 

The  ripened  meadows  waited  for  his  hand, 
The  praties  lingered  for  his  spade  to  sthrike, 

And  sure  meself  and  Kate  could  hardly  stand 
That  watch  for  Mike. 

And  then  he  came,  we  heard  the  pony's  throt, 
A  blackbird  whistled  from  the  garden  dyke, 

But  Kate  and  I  saw  nothin'  but  a  blot 
Of  tears — and  Mike. 

"Avic  machree,"  said  I,  but  Kate  flung  wide 

Her  arms  to  hold  him  where  his  life  had  sthrike, 

And  like  a  baby  on  her  breast  he  cried 
Our  big  son,  Mike. 


72  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 


TAKIN'  TAY  AT  RIELLYS'. 

ARRAH,  did  you  know  the  Riellys  that  lived  near 

Donadea? — 
A  fine  old-fashioned  place  they  had  as  snug  as  snug 

could  be, 
And  sure  for  dacint  people  you  couldn't  bate  thim 

round 
The  two   and  thirty  counties  of  Ireland's  blessed 

ground. 


'Tis  often  I  am  thinkin'  of  Sundays  afther  Mass 
Whin  down  the  mossy  boreen  that  skirts  their  door 

I'd  pass, 
And  "Come  inside  and  rest  yourself  agra,"  Herself 

would  say, 
And  thin  we'd  have  potato  cake  and  a  cup  of  Irish 

tay. 


Such  tay  it  was,  with  cream,  bedad,  and  plinty  more 

in  sight, 
And   sure     the   hot   potato    cake    I'm   tastin'    here 

to-night, 
'Twas   butthered    in   the    middle   with   the   butther 

runnin'  through 
And   faith,   with   all   respects   to   ye,   my   face   was 

butthered  too. 


Takin   Tay  at  Riellys.  73 

My  stomach's  sick  and  tired  of  the  food  'tis  gettin' 

now 
With  "buttherine"  and  milk  in  tins  that  never  saw  a 

cow, 
And  once  a  woman  says  to  me  "I  always  take  my 

tay 
With  a  slice  of  limon  in  it  for  that's  the  Russian 

way." 

I  never  was  a  Russian,  a  Frinchman  or  a  Jew, 
I'm  Irish  every  inch  of  me  and  my  tastes  are  Irish 

too, 

I  like  a  dish  of  cabbage  with  corned  beef  or  pork 
But  O,   for  hot  potato  cake  I'd  go  from  here  to 

Cork. 

And  Bridget  Rielly  was  the  one  to  make  ye  dhrink 

and  ait, 
Ye'd  never  lave  her  table  while  a  crumb  was  on 

your  plate, 

She  never  kept  an  impty  pot  nor  griddle  on  her  floor 
Or  shut  agin  a  neighbor's  face  the  latchpin  of  her 

door. 

It  isn't  goold  I'm  wantin',  though  money's  good  ye 

know, 
And  sure  my  health  is  fine,   thank  God   as  twinty 

years  ago. 
But  I'm  lonesome  for  the  Riellys,  this  many  a  weary 

day 
And  I'm  hungry  for  potato  cake  and  a  cup  of  Irish 

tay. 


74  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 


IN  THE  SPRING  O'  THE  YEAR. 

IN  the  spring  o'  the  year  we  two  went  walkin', 

O,  but  the  greenin'  meadows  were  sweet, 

And  God  to  His  world  of  love  was  talkin' 

In  every  daisy  about  our  feet. 

My  heart  was  singin'  with  joy  arid  laughter, 

O,  soul  of  my  bosom,  if  I  but  knew 

The  desolate  days  that,  were  speedin'  afther 

When  I'd  go  walkin'  no  more  with  you. 

In  the  spring  o'  the  year  you  lay  adyin', 
The  greenin'  meadows  were  wild  with  rain 
And  God  to  His  world  of  woe  was  sighin' 
In  every  splash  on  the  window  pane  ; 
Dhroopin'  to  rest  like  a  sea  beat  swallow 
I  felt  you  slippin'  away  from  me, 
And  the  pitiful  feet  of  me  could  not  follow 
Beyond  those  shadows  of  mysthery. 

Now  years  keep  comin'  and  years  keep  goin', 
'Tis  little  I  heed  them  green  or  grey, 
Watchin'  the  river  of  life  whose  flowin' 
Must  sometime  bring  me  a  brighter  day. 
Then  spring  o'  the  year  or  depth  of  winther 
God  will  be  talkin'  of  joy  agin 
To  me  and  His  world  when  I  shall  inther 
The  same  soft  shadows  where  you  went  in. 


Parnell  75 


PARNELL. 

LIFT  him  up  in  the  place  of  his  people,  let  him  stand 

where  the  crowds  go  by, 
The  man  who  was  pledged  for  our  liberty,  the  man 

who  can  never  die, 
O'er  the  streets  of  that  ancient  city  where  the  breath 

of  his  soul  was  blown 
Let  him  stand  like   a  mighty  Ard  Ri  that  hovers 

above  his  own. 

Let  the  lips  that  unleashed  our  passions   and  the 

hands  that  for  us  threw  down, 
The  challenge  of  Man  for  his  liberty  be  set  over 

Dublin  town; 
Let  the  dawn  of  our  day  be  golden  and  the  rain  of 

our  night  be  sweet 
Where  the  glory  and  pride  of  Erin  are  wreathed 

about  his  feet. 


Lift  him  up  in  the  place  of  his  people,  let  the  surge 

of  their  love  be  hurled 
To  the  face  that  was  turned  in  strength  to  them 

from  all  the  claims  of  the  world, 
While  the  nations  of  men  are  travailing  in  joy  of  a 

ransomed  birth 
Set  him  here  where  the  Celt  is  fashioning  the  crown 

of  his  fate  on  earth. 


76  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Patriot,  hero  or  demagogue — what  matter  the  cry 

he  met, 
On  the  scroll  of  eternal  liberty  the  place  of  his  fame 

is  set, 
And  there  will  the  royal  greatness  that  shadowed 

the  might  of  kings 
Be  one  with  the  spirit  of  man  that  lies  at  the  core 

of  created  things. 

Lift  him  up  in  the  place  of  his  people,  for  the  earth's 

soul  quickens  apace, 
And  the  nations  of  men  are  standing  heart  riven 

and  face  to  face 
Gauging  the  dreams  that  a  race  may  dare  whatever 

that  race  may  be, 
For  the  tribes  of  God  know  but  one  free  sod  on  the 

summits  of  Liberty. 

Lift  him  up  in  the  place  of  his  people,  on  the  road 

that  is  free  to  men, 
Where  never  a  tyrant  dares  to  flaunt  the  shame  of 

our  bonds  again; 
O'er  the   streets   of  that   ancient   city,   where   the 

breath  of  his  soul  was  blown, 
Let  him  stand  like  a  mighty  Ard  Ri  that  hovers 

above  his  own. 


The  Old  Bog  Road.  77 


THE  OLD  BOG  ROAD. 

MY  feet  are  here  on  Broadway  this  blessed  harvest 

morn 
But  O,  the  ache  that's  in  thim  for  the  sod  where  I 

was  born; 
My  weary  hands  are  blisthered  from  toil  in  cold  and 

heat 
And  'tis  O,  to  swing  a  scythe  to-day  through  fields  of 

Irish  wheat. 
Had  I  my  choice  to  journey  back  or  own  a  king's 

abode 
'Tis  soon  I'd  see  the  hawthorn  tree  by  the  old  bog 

road. 


Whin  I  was  young  and  innocent  my  mind  was  ill  at 

ease 
Through  dhramin'  of  America  and  goold  beyant  the 

seas, 
Och,  sorra  take   their  money  but  'tis  hard  to  get  that 

same — 
And  what's  the  whole  world  to  a  man  whin  no  one 

spakes  his  name! 
I've  had  my  day  and  here  I  am  with  buildin'  bricks 

for  load 
A  long  three  thousand  miles  away  from  the  old  bog 

road. 


78  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

My   mother   died   last   springtime    whin    Ireland's 

fields  were  green, 
The  neighbors  said  her  wakin'  was  the  finest  ever 

seen, 
There    were    snowdrops    and    primroses    piled    up 

around  her  bed 
And  Ferns  Church  was  crowded  whin  her  funeral 

Mass  was  said. 
And  here  was  I  on  Broadway  with  buildin'  bricks  for 

load 
Whin  they  carried  out  her  coffin  from  the  old  bog 

road. 

There  was  a  dacint  girl  at  home  who  used  to  walk 

with  me, 
Her  eyes  were  soft  and  sorrowful  like  moonbames 

on  the  sea, 

Her  name  was  Mary  Dwyer, — but  that  is  long  ago 
And  the  ways  of  God  are  wiser  than  the  things  a 

man  may  know. 
She  died  the  year  I  left  her,  but  with  buildin'  bricks 

for  load 
I'd  best  forget  the  times  we  met  on  the  old  bog  road. 

Och,  life's  a  weary  puzzle,  past  findin'  out  by  man, 
I  take  the  day  for  what  it's  worth  and  do  the  best 

I  can, 
Since  no  one  cares  a  rush  for  me  what  need  to  make 

a  moan, 
I  go  my  way  and  dhraw  my  pay  and  smoke  my  pipe 

alone. 


The  Ancient  Race.  79 

Each  human  heart  must  know  its  grief  though  bitther 

be  the  load 
So  God  be  with  old  Ireland  and  the  old  bog  road. 


THE  ANCIENT   RACE. 

I  DREAMED  that  from  Time's  high  threshold  I  saw 

a  vision  of  earth 
Since  out  of  primeval  chaos  the  first  lands  blossomed 

forth, 
And  the  warring  hosts  in  battalions  for  Right  and 

Wrong  were  arrayed 
'Gainst  the  souls  of  men  and  of  nations  when  God's 

first  laws  were  made. 

And  up  through  the  changing  ages  strange  forms  and 

tribes  of  men 
Arose  from  the  gloom  to  vanish  like  wraiths  in  the 

gloom  again. 
And  many  a  proud  dominion  went  down  with  its 

thrones  and  kings 
Like  a  story  heard  in  the  twilight — to  the  place  of 

forgotten  things. 

I  saw  the  slave  in  his  bondage  shrink  back  from  the 

scourger's  hands, 
And  the  blood  of  a  million  martyrs  flow  red  over 

ruined  lands; 


80  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Then,   lo,   on   a   shifted   morrow   the   slave  by   his 

master  stood 
And  the  crimson  tide  was  a  ruby  in  the  crown  of 

man's  brotherhood. 


Then  spake  I  unto  the  Watcher  who  stands  for  aye 

in  the  Gate. 
Keeper  he  of  the  records  men  write  on  the  books 

of  Fate, 
"Show  me  with  clearer  vision,  O,  Thou  of  the  scrolls 

divine! 
The  story  of  mine  own  people  in  the  house  of  their 

life  and  mine." 

The  Watcher  smiled  as  he  answered, — "Dost  fear 

for  the  Celtic  race  ! — 
Behold  by  the  north  star's  shining  they  stand  in  their 

destined  place." 
And  then  with  a  shock  of  vision  I  saw  what  the  high 

gods  see 
Whose   hands   on   the   Nations'   heartstrings   make 

failure  or  victory. 

A  continent  old  and  hoary,  grown  mad  in  its  vain 
desires, 

O'erthrown  in  a  swirl  of  waters  and  crash  of  a  thou 
sand  fires,* 

*  According  to  an  ancient  legend,  Ireland  arose  from  the  ocean  after 
the  old  continent  of  Atlantis  was  submerged  thereby. 


The  Ancient  Race.  81 

Then,  lo,  as  the  darkness  lifted  in  an  aura  of  light 

divine, 
Uprose  the  home  of  my  people  'neath  the  star  of 

their  fates  and  mine. 


Purified,  holy  and  verdant  stood  Eire  in  safe  retreat, 
With  the  winds  of  dawn  on  her  forehead,  the  surges 

about  her  feet; 
While  out  of  the  highest  heavens  I  heard  the  decree 

roll  forth— 
"With  the  leaven  of  this  my  daughter  I  shall  leaven 

the  tribes  of  earth." 

O,  many  the  days  of  glory  when  the  light  of  her 

learning  shone 
Through  the  dim  byways  of  a  world  that  sighed  for 

a  glimpse  of  dawn. 
When  the  fame  of  her  saints  and  sages  was  bright  as 

her  own  green  sod 
Ere  the  awful  hour  of  her  testing  was  struck  from 

the  chimes  of  God. 

Then  saw  I  her  altars  shattered,  her  shrines  in  the 

dust  laid  low, 
And  through  the  halls  of  her  broken  kings  the  feet 

of  a  foeman  go, 
With  her  eyes  to  the  north  star  lifted  she  stood  by 

her  slaughtered  dead, 
The  Lord's  Handmaid  of  the  world  a  beggar  for 

alms  and  bread. 


82  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

In  bondage  and  persecution,  in  famine  and  fever 

ships 
Were  her  children  beaten  and  scattered,  their  death 

cries  searing  her  lips. 
And  as  ever  the  blood-stained  ages  grew  darker  with 

woe  and  dread 
I  turned  me  unto  the  Watcher, — "Have  pity,  and 

spare,"  I  said. 

But  the  Watcher  smiled  as  he  answered, — "Would'st 

weep  for  the  Celtic  race? — 
Behold  in   the   noonday   shining   they   go   to   their 

destined  place." 
And  then  with  unveiled  vision  I  saw  in  a  blazing 

glow 
The  exiled  ranks  of  my  people  to  the  heart  of  the 

whole  world  go. 

Raising  temples  and  cities,  sailing  o'er  trackless  seas, 
Priests  and  soldiers  and  pioneers,  builders  in  war  and 

peace, 
While  ever  their  homage  and  yearning  went  back 

with  a  love  divine 
To  the  shrine  of  their  souls  behind  them — the  land 

of  their  hearts  and  mine. 

Again  I  turned  to  the  Watcher — "How  endeth  the 

tale?"    I  said, 
"Shall  this  mother  of  heroes  and  sages  be  a  land 

of  the  quick  or  the  dead?," 


The  Cuckoo's  Call.  83 

But  ever  he  smiled  in  answer, — "Fear  not,  for  the 

Celtic  race 
Is  tested  and  weighed  by  the  gods  who  made  their 

first  and  their  final  place." 

Then,  lo,  in  a  blaze  of  glory  stood  Eire,  our  love  of 

the  lands, 
With  a  Victor's  smile  on  her  forehead  and  peace 

in  her  chainless  hands; 
While  out  of  the  highest  Heavens  the  jubilant  cry 

rang  forth 
"With    the    leaven    of    this    my    daughter    I    have 

leavened  the  tribes  of  earth." 


THE   CUCKOO'S  CALL. 

O,  WHAT  is  it  I'm  dhreamin'  of  from  weary  day  to 

day? — 

'Tis  Spring  beyant  in  Ireland  and  me  so  far  away. 
And  what  is  it  I'm  hearin'  clear  above  the  city's 

glare,— 
Och  sure  it  is  the  cuckoo's  call  at  home  in  old  Kildare. 

Aye,  Spring  is  there  in  Ireland  with  lambs  upon  the 
hills 

And  rainy  breezes  playin'  with  the  yalla  daffodils, 

Primroses  peepin'  by  the  hedge  and  daisies  every 
where 

While  thrushes  sing  their  songs  of  love  from  green- 
in'  bushes  there. 


84  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Across  the  wild  Atlantic  it  is  beatin'  on  my  lips 
That  little  wind  of  April  like  a  baby's  finger  tips, 
'Tis  dhrivin'  me  to  madness  for  the  things  I  want 

to-day 
With  Spring  beyant  in  Ireland  and  me  so  far  away. 

'Tis  beatin'  on  my  heartsthrings  and  'tis  beatin'  on 

my  breast 
'Tis  callin'  me  to  Ireland  with  a  cry  that  will  not 

rest, 
To   buddin'   branch   and   bramble   and   sloe   threes 

glimmerin'  white 
And  little  sthreams  that  whisper  there  down  every 

wind  of  night. 

O,  greenin'  heart  of  Ireland  three  thousand  miles 

from  me 

My  arms  to  you  I'm  reachin'  out  across  the  salty  sea ; 
The  cuckoo's  call  rings  through  my  blood,   across 

the  world  'tis  blown 
For  Spring  is  there  in  old  Kildare  and  I'm  alone, — 

alone. 


ROLL  BACK  THE  STONE. 

ROLL  back  the  stone,  for  the  Lord  hath  spoken 
And  dawn  is  white  where  her  night  was  known, 

Behold  her  fetters  of  death  are  broken 
And  Erin  is  risen — roll  back  the  stone! 


Roll  Back  the  Stone.  85 

Do  you  feel  the  thrill  of  her  coming,  nations, 

Whose  proud  feet  trampled  her,  blood  and  bone, 

Or  wist  ye  not  that  her  centuried  patience 

But  bided  His  summons?     Roll  back  the  stone! 

Roll  back  the  stone,  for  the  truth  and  glory 

Of  every  aeon  since  time  was  young 
Are  shrined  in  the  dreams  of  her  unwrit  story, 

From  deep  to  deep  of  the  ages  swung; 
For  the  lords  of  life  at  the  first  words  spoken 

Set  seal  on  the  Celt  as  their  chosen  own 
To  toil  and  serve  till  the  bonds  where  broken 

From  man  and  his  mission.     Roll  back  the  stone ! 

O !  hers  was  a  spirit  no  death  could  stifle, 

The  greatest  in  loving,  the  least  in  hate, 
The  foremost  where  Liberty  primed  her  rifle 

And  Freedom  was  wrung  from  the  depths  of  fate. 
Yea,  when  her  own  green  flag  was  lying 

A  broken  reed  by  a  broken  throne, 
Her  soul  from  the  ramparts  of  life  was  crying 

Defiance  to  tyrants.     Roll  back  the  stone ! 

Roll  back  the  stone,  for  she  stands  immortal, 

A  watcher  of  time  by  the  war  lords  shod, 
And  who  but  her  heroes  shall  guard  the  portal 

Whence  laws  swing  down  from  the  courts  of  God? 
And  who  shall  reign  on  the  heights  forever 

But  she  who  lay  in  the  dust  alone, 
And  who  will  rule  but  the  soul  that  never 

Was  stained  with  dishonor?    Roll  back  the  stone ! 


86  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Roll  back  the  stone,  for  with  hell  below  her 

And  arms  outspread  on  a  centuried  cross 
She  won  all  the  ways  of  the  world  to  know  her 

And  agonize  there  with  her,  loss  by  loss. 
And  so  in  a  passion  of  joy  and  wonder 

She   stands   in   the   dawn   where   her   night   was 

known, 
While  the  angels  of  Liberty  chant  in  thunder 

"  She  is  risen,  is  risen."     Roll  back  the  stone ! 


THRAMPIN'    DOWN   TO   SLIGO. 

THRAMPIN'  down  to  Sligo  with  my  peddler's  cart, 
There's  Dublin  left  behind  me  and  the  plains  of 

Kildare, 

Thrampin'  down  to  Sligo  and  the  ways  of  my  heart 
Where    Maurya's   waitin'    for   me   in   her   grey- 

sthreaked  hair; 
Just  the  same  dear  woman  that  I  kissed  by  Loch 

Gill 
Thirty-seven  years  ago  and  my  Maurya  still. 

I'm  sick  of  Dublin  city  with  its  noise  and  its  fret, 

I'm  sick  of  sellin'  vanithees  my  wares  by  the  road, 
For  down  beyond  the  Shannon  the  blackthorn  bushes 

set 

Their  little  blossoms  out  to  say  that  Spring  is 
abroad; 


Thrampin  Down  to  Sligo.  87 

And  one  old  thrush  I'm  knowin'  these  five  years  and 

more 
Is  settin'  up  her  nest  beside  my  own  cabin  door. 

My  little  donkey's  tired  and  I  am  tired  too, 

When  sixty  years  are  on  you  what  joy  is  there  in 

life 
But  to  rest  beside  the  things  you  know  are  always 

thrue, 
And  what  to  man  is  thruer  than  his  home  and  his 

wife ! — 
So  I'm  thrampin'  down  to  Sligo,  to  my  own  heart's 

share 
Where    Maurya's    waitin'    for    me    in    her    grey- 

sthreaked  hair. 

The  nights  are  sweet  about  me  and  the  dawns  rain 

grey 

And  every  step  I  go  is  over  good  Irish  sod, — 
'  Were  you  ever  in  America?  "  a  man  said  yesther- 

day, 

"  Begor,  I  never  was,"  said  I,  "  I  thank  my  God;" 
So  I'm  thrampin'  down  to  Sligo  where  the  sea  winds 

race 
And  there's  welcome  waitin'  for  me  in  my  Maurya's 

face, 


Songs  of  the  Dawn. 


BONFIRE   NIGHT   IN   IRELAND. 

'TlS  Bonfire  Night  in  Ireland,  God,  but  the  years  go 

fast, 
And  here's  myself  a  lonesome  man  who  lives  but  in 

the  past, 
The  long  day's  work  is  over  and  stars  come  out 

above 
But  sure  they're  not  the  stars  of  home,  the  ones  I 

used  to  love ; 
And  neither  is  this  burning  night  like  that  old  night 

in  June 
When  Tommy  Casey  whistled  up  "  The  Rising  of 

the  Moon." 


Sure  that  same  boy  could  make  the  dead  get  up  and 

stir  their  feet, 
I'd  rather  spend  an  hour  with  him  than  all  I  drink 

or  eat, 
Beginning  soft   and   easy  with   u  The   Harp "   or 

"  Shrule  Aroon  " 
'Tis  soon  he'd  have  you  fighting  mad  with  some  old 

Fenian  tune; 
But    when    he'd    start    the    "  Rocky    Road "    or 

'"  Humors  of  Glandore," 
A  blind  and  bothered  cripple  couldn't  help  but  welt 

the  floor. 


Bonfire  Night  in  Ireland.  89 

O,  Lord,  those  nights  in  Ireland  with  the  meadows 

ripe  to  mow 
And  corncrakes'  voices  telling  you  old  things  of  long 

ago. 
I  can  see  the  big  moon  rising  now,  a  globe  of  silver 

white, 
I  can  smell  the  hawthorn  blossoms  here  across  this 

scorching  night, 
Aye,  flinging  all  the  years  behind,  I  live  that  night  in 

June 
When  Tommy  Casey  whistled  up  "  The  Rising  of 

the  Moon." 


With   our   kippeens   on   our   shoulders   where   our 

fathers'  pikes  were  drawn 
We  marched  about  the  ashes  as  the  day  began  to 

dawn, 
And  the  call  of  all  the  ages  flung  its  challenge  in  our 

face 
As  we  pledged  our  lives  to  Ireland  and  the  glory  of 

the  race; 
And   there    stood   Tommy   Casey   whistling   up   to 

Heaven  the  tune, 
That  made  us  freemen  for  a  while,  "The  Rising  of 

the  Moon." 

Oh,  well,  'tis  all  a  memory  now,  and  I'm  a  lonesome 

man, 
While  Tommy  Casey  sleeps  to-night  below  by  San 

Juan. 


90  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 

Aye,  sure  he  died  for  liberty  for  when  she  lifts  her 

hand 
What  better  henchmen  has  she  than  the  sons  of  that 

old  land, 
Whose  lives  and  souls  and  deeds  for  her  have  woven 

such  wondrous  tune 
That  Gabriel's  trumpet  knows  by  now  u  The  Rising 

of  the  Moon!" 


'Tis  Bonfire  Night  in  Ireland,  and  the  hawthorn  still 

is  sweet, 
While  Murphy's  cross-roads  echo  to  the  thrill  of 

dancing  feet; 
There's  laughter,  love,  and  music,  and  a  big  moon 

shining  white, 
But,  O,  my  God,  the  weary  miles  that  part  us  all 

to-night. 
And  there  is  none  to  take  his  place,  who  stood  that 

night  in  June, 
And  made  us  freemen  for  a  while  with  "  The  Rising 

of  the  Moon." 


The  Old  Road  Home.  91 


THE  OLD  ROAD  HOME. 

I  WOULD  know  it  in  the  darkness  were  I  deaf  and 

dumb  and  blind, 
I  would  know  it  o'er  the  thrashing  of  a  million 

miles  of  foam, 
I  would  know  it  sun  or  shadow,  I  would  know  it  rain 

or  wind, 

The  road  that  leads  to  Ireland,  aye,  the  old  road 
home. 

Sure  the  angels  up  in  Heaven  would  be  pointing  it 

to  me 
From  every  track  that  man  has  made  since  first 

he  learned  to  roam, 
And  my  feet  would  leap  to  greet  it  like  a  captive 

thing  set  free 

The  road  that  leads  to  Ireland,  aye,  the  old  road 
home. 

I  would  find  the  hawthorn  bushes,  I  would  find  the 

boreen's  gap 

With  one  old  cabin  standing  'mid  the  soft  green 
ing  loam, 
If  the  world  was  all  a  jumble  on  the  great  Creator's 

lap 

I  would  know  the  road  to  Ireland,  aye,  the  old 
road  home. 


92  Songs  of  the  Dawn. 


A   DHOC   AN   DHORRIS. 

HERE  where  my  rhymes  are  ended  and  you  leave  the 

old  for  the  new 
I'm  pledging  a  dhoc  an  dhorris,  O,  friends  of  my 

heart  to  you, 
I  know  that  my  simple  singing  will  fade  from  your 

ears  as  soon 
As  the  song  of  a  wayside  robin  you  heard  by  the 

road  in  June; 
But  the  dreams  I  have  dreamed  for  Ireland,  please 

God  they  will  never  die 
Till  we're  drinking  a  dhoc  an  dhorris  to  the  world 

itself, — Good-bye. 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  C  VLIFORNU 
LOS  ANGELES 


^000919791     4 


PS 

3503 

B?39s 


